


give sorrow words

by newvision



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, please dont freak out i swear everything is fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 23:10:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19914313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newvision/pseuds/newvision
Summary: “Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.” Macbeth, Act IV Scene IIIor: the one where soonyoung and wonwoo learn that grief is no logical beast.





	give sorrow words

**Author's Note:**

> literally all of the life force has left my body i just really hope that everyone likes this
> 
> thank you - first of all - to my wonderful artist soda for working tirelessly with me and keeping me in check throughout this whole process + tolerating my endless rambling about symbolism and random minor details because god knows i couldn't have done this without you. thank you to the ever-lovely cat for hosting this whole thing and being such a beacon of support; and obviously thank you to every single person who had to tolerate me moaning about this fic. you are all brave soldiers and i cannot thank you enough
> 
> secondly: this fic deals heavily with topics of parental death, and the stages of grief. please give this a miss if you're sensitive to those things! also just to address the tags, i genuinely promise that everything is going to be fine please don't worry about that i am a man of my word. there are absolutely no graphic descriptions of either of those topics in this work.
> 
> with that being said, i do hope you enjoy this, and thank you in advance for giving it your time. as always, comments/kudos/bookmarks etc are appreciated! <3

[please check out soda's wonderful work!](https://66.media.tumblr.com/6e51f5f2cb40275c39e3ac1f455fa3fc/tumblr_pv1uuiDkju1syl02fo1_1280.png)

"Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.” Macbeth, Act IV Scene III

**_I. SUMMER_ **

****

That year brought with it the coldest summer. Frost covered the sharpened edges of leaves, and the darkness continued all through July. In August, Soonyoung buries his father.

Around him, the funeral procession wails on. The women of the court hurl their hands into the freezing soil, all the while pulling and tearing out chunks of earth that stain their hands and dresses in a deep, dirty brown. They cradle it in their hands and against their chests like one would a child; and Soonyoung shivers as the soil disintegrates in a way he knows all bodies eventually will, but never wants to have to properly face . Instead, he stands to the side, folding his hands over the cold bulb of moonstone on his father’s sceptre for the last time. It’s only when the bagpipes sound their mournful call that he steps forward, wrapping his hands around the grooves in the wooden length of it - as if doing so would bring him any closer to a dead man. Still, he supposes it’s a history that belongs to his family, and to him, so he has a right to cling on to these little traces of the man who raised him.

He can barely bring himself to let go of the sceptre, to drop it so unceremoniously into the open mouth of the ground where his father’s body waits to be swallowed by that same sour soil. He knows their customs dictate that all of the man’s earthly possessions must join him in that great open gash upon the earth; but in the days leading up to it he’d wondered where that left him. What traces of his father would be left to him then? All his clothes had been burnt on a funeral pyre that yawned lazily into the light of the early morning; his beds had been stripped and their sheets made into kindling; and now his father’s one trusted companion would be banished into that same inaccessible realm. With no visitations and no forwarding address, Soonyoung begins to wonder where he’ll ever be able to put down these dreams of his father. It’s curious in its cruelty, the fact that despite the extinguishing of a life, it can’t truly simmer out until the web of connections it built over the years falls to that same dust and ruin.

And even then; the stories and all their words keep the flame alive. He thinks of how he’d absentmindedly ran his hands over an open flame in the funeral chambers earlier that morning, as preparations were in full swing and he couldn’t bear to be around any longer. His nurse had sat at his feet as she took up the job of folding his father’s robes that he would not - could not - touch, all because the only thing his hands wanted to do was bring them up to his face, let him press his nose in and weep to the smell of lavender and smoke.

Overhead, the words swam about the room. She told him the story of the day he was born; how brave his father had been even in the face of his mother’s death, how he’d tenderly cradled Soonyoung amidst all the lovely blood that had seeped into his shirt and dyed his hands a red that would never quite fade. How he’d remained gentle through it all, how he’d been adamant and stood tall even when the spots of red dominated his vision and Soonyoung’s face blurred into his mother’s long-dead one. Soonyoung had never seen her, of course. His father only kept one picture of her to his knowledge, a portrait that hung in the back of one of his closets. When he was younger, he used to clamber up a teetering tower of stools and chairs trying to reach her, to caress the canvas if only to make that brief connection. Even as his gaze had lingered on that closet with poorly-disguised longing, he knows he can’t stomach the weight of any more grief; let alone for a person he never knew.

He’s still holding the sceptre.

“My lord? ” Jeonghan calls, and Soonyoung flinches as he hears the grass just behind him crunch under the feet of the council member. And then, a spidery hand pressing down on his shoulder with a force too overbeating to be convincingly friendly. “You have to let it go,” he whispers, his hand now sliding down to Soonyoung’s and folding nauseatingly over where his knuckles have essentially molded themselves into the pale wood.

“I’m aware,” Soonyoung tells him coldly, already desperate to be rid of the other man’s too-warm presence, which settles over him like muggy tendrils of foggy heat. Then, turning to the crowd, “All but Seokmin - leave me,” he orders, holding back an audible sigh of relief as Jeonghan smoothly steps away. In his place, Seokmin rushes forward, almost tripping over the ends of his robes in his haste to be near Soonyoung. Once, his boyish desperation would’ve made him smile. Now, it just makes his heart ache.

“Sire?” Seokmin asks hopefully once the circle is clear, trying very hard to keep the excitement out of his voice. He obviously thinks this is a special moment meant to be held between them, kindling a favouritism from Soonyoung none of the other council members had ever been on the receiving end of. Soonyoung is far too exhausted to tell him he just needed another tolerable human being in the same space with him so he wouldn’t be able to totally unravel.

“Hand me the buckwheat and the coin,” he instructs him, then falls into a kneel by the graveside and stares in. His father’s blank, sleeping face doesn’t see him. The darkness of the soil produces a sickening contrast to the waxy paleness of his father’s skin. Soonyoung swallows the rising bile in his throat and tries desperately to ignore the tautness of the skin, pulled over a dead face and eyes that won’t ever open again.

“Right away, sire,” Seokmin says in a rush, darting around the clearing to grab a handful of the buckwheat which they’d laid out earlier, and a single, silver coin. All the while, the wind roars in his ears and covers any sound of Seokmin moving around; the illusion that he’s all alone threatens to sneak up on him, but he dares not entertain even the slightest thought of it lest it only encourage his heartbreak.

Seokmin returns then, pressing the large, ceremonial coin into his palm before he gently pours the buckwheat in. Soonyoung watches with pursed lips, then says nothing in thanks as he pours the buckwheat into his dead father’s cupped hands. He can see Seokmin physically aching in waiting for him to say something, _anything_ , but he can’t muster the words. What good could words do in the face of such death, such soul-wrenching sorrow? Instead, he just lets the other man’s eyes follow him as he pries open the mouth of the corpse and slides the coin onto its waiting tongue. Money had never been able to bring their family any good in his father’s lifetime, but he holds out hope that perhaps for once the currency would do its job in the underworld. A ferry for the soul; he remembers the stories of the afterlife he’d been told in his childhood. As he slides his hand out of the corpse’s palate and accidentally brushes its lip, he imagines a ghostly ferryman and wonders idly if it’d have a great shining scythe like he’d always seen in the paintings. He can’t imagine that it’d be very welcoming, regardless of whether or not one’s soul was meant to be whisked off to the Plains of Paradise to live out the rest of eternity.

His futile attempt to avoid thinking of how dead and cold his father’s mouth had felt falls short. Thoughts of childhood had stung, and now all he can feel is that strange, papery dryness on his hands. Surely, that had been the same mouth that had been so firm in giving orders; the same mouth that reprimanded him for his mistakes but would always be ready to press a kiss to the top of his head by the end of the day -- and yet without all the life it once held, then what was it really? A body in a box isn’t much to behold.

Seokmin must’ve picked up on his quiet suffering, and he kneels softly beside Soonyoung. The sceptre lies between them, its moonstone still glowing with imperceptible warmth despite the ever-growing darkness of the day overhead. Looking at it immediately produces a lump in Soonyoung’s throat that no amount of polite coughs could clear. Mercifully, Seokmin picks it up and offers it to him.

“Would you prefer if we lowered it together?” he offers, his voice hushed.

Soonyoung can only nod silently. The traitorous tears have already managed to work their way out from behind his eyes, and they’re coursing freely down his cheeks. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

With Seokmin’s warm hands now embracing his own, they clutch the sceptre and let it rest in the king’s hands for the last time. Soonyoung knew that it would always end up there, once again; after all, there wasn’t a day that passed that the king didn’t have it with him. And yet the knowledge does nothing to make it easier; doesn’t soothe the soul-fraying ache in his heart nor provide any kind of guidance. He’s never going to see his father again.

For a minute, he contemplates leaning on Seokmin and crying hard enough to encapsulate all of Earth - if only that would be enough to rid him of the nauseating awareness of his loss. He knows it won’t be. He isn’t sure anything ever will.

It’s only when they get back to the castle and the light starts to depart from the day that Seokmin speaks.

“Sire?” he calls, just as Soonyoung thought he could retire to his chambers to properly stew in his grief without the shadow of responsibility at his door. With a defeated sigh and his crown dangling inconsequentially from his fingertips, he turns to face Seokmin.

“Yes?”

“Well, uh, if I might..”

“ _Yes_?”

“It’s just that er, I got wind that..”

“Oh, out with it already!” Soonyoung snaps, then immediately regrets it as he sees Seokmin flinch and dip instinctively into an apologetic bow, as if trying to make himself as inoffensive as possible. “My apologies,” he immediately recedes, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. Seokmin gives him a small, understanding smile he knows he doesn’t deserve. “It’s just..been a long day.”

“Of course, sire,” Seokmin starts to pull away again, but then thinks better of it. His next words come out garbled and rushed, but he seems determined to expel them all in one breath regardless. “Jeonghan and the others are planning a coup against you and they want to dethrone you before your coronation is finished.” 

There’s a beat of silence. And then: “I see,” Soonyoung replies thoughtfully, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of a possibly life-shattering series of events.

“Sire?” Seokmin repeats, but an undeniable uncertainty has crept into his voice.

“Well, thank you for informing me. Goodnight, Seokmin,” Soonyoung tells him, then retires into his chambers without another word.

Seokmin watches his retreating back for another moment, his solitary figure hovering in the hallway whilst the torches overhead light the crown of his head with a soft halo. Then, shaking his head as if trying to shake off a pesky fly, he straightens and hurries off to the dining hall to join the rest of the council.

***

In the safety of his own chambers, Soonyoung still refuses to sink. After a whole day of convincing himself to stay afloat despite the vast amount of leaks that have sprung in his hull, he’s sure he can manage a few more hours. Days, weeks; months even. However long it takes for other people to see that he won’t crumble nor go under at the slightest of pressures.

Seokmin had been kind to him, of course - it comes with the territory of having grown up together in the same oppressive space, having passed hours inventing new worlds in empty corridors and lighting fires in the darkest of hallways - but he knows not everyone will respond to him this way. His father had always said that the royalty must earn the favour of the people, for no family line would ever be strong enough to carry themselves through if all the world has their backs turned to them. Even now, the memory of the timbre of his voice as he repeated those words produces a constellation of tiny, imperceptible stings along Soonyoung’s palms. He clenches them, even though no one else is around to see nor feel his pain. Instead, he tries his hardest to steady the turning wheels of his mind to Jeonghan, Joshua, and Seungkwan; his inevitable conspirators.

He supposes he should congratulate them, if anything. The trio had always been the strongest, most tactical of his advisors. They played their roles well, putting forth ideas just outlandish enough to get a rise out of everyone else without leaning themselves too deeply into the scene of it all. Soonyoung had often enjoyed watching their elaborate shenanigans from afar, and they had quickly become a source of amusement for himself and the king in those last few painful days. Even on his deathbed, the king had ordered that council meetings proceed in his presence because the world around them had never stopped for one man, and he wasn’t about to change that. Deep down, Soonyoung knew he was doing what he could to maintain normalcy so his poor son wouldn’t panic and drown the moment he let go of the steering wheel. And yet, despite all of the safety measures the king had tried to leave behind in his last moments as captain, Jeonghan, Joshua and Seungkwan had found a way to break the barrier. Of course, they’d joked and jested in those last few days. But everyone knows that when the cat’s away the mice will play; and so it seemed logical enough that a dead cat would prove even more of a temptation.

The scheme to dethrone him in a coup didn’t come as a surprise, thankfully. The times in between the crumbling of old rulers and the worship of new gods often brought forth the rage of the people. Seokmin had once suggested that it may be due to the people feeling as though there was no longer the watchful eye of the throne following them around every corner - and initially Soonyoung had accepted that. His father too had once told him of the black days in between his grandfather’s death and his own coronation, how the streets had nearly choked themselves on the dark magic and spirits that thronged through the air in the absence of a steadfast figurehead of rules and regulations. But thinking about it now, with the iron veil of smoke and grief descending over his eyes, he can see how the general outbreak of the populace could be due to grief, rather than empty rage alone. He often forgets that he isn’t the only one who’s lost someone. Grief, beyond all its overused manifestations as smog and impenetrable forests, is also anger. Never one to be contained, that rage often finds itself manifesting in screeching spillages - even in the most unsightly of places. The royal court, for instance.

Lucky for him, he’s been angry most of his life. He’d say he might even know anger better than anyone - even better than his conspirators. Growing up as a prince had earned him his fair share of loneliness, of course; but he also knew how to kick and scream and act on the stupidest of his impulses to spite the infuriating advice of those around him. When his father had first discouraged him from playing with one of the servant’s sons, he’d ‘accidentally’ dropped one of the jewelled goblets from the gold dining set out of the castle’s windows. When his governess had slapped him for being unable to regurgitate the stiff facts of history whilst the other children played outside, he’d spent the rest of his quarantined afternoon folding the torn pages of his textbooks into birds that sprung into unencumbered, weightless flight around his room. He’d earned quite the shelling for that one, but it was one of his earliest victories as a boy. (His governess had been fired the next day.) His greatest victory of all, though, came on the day his father had chosen to outlaw magic entirely. This, of all the laws they enforced, struck him particularly hard.

When he was a boy and the hours would pass by dully without companion nor anyone to offer contradiction, he had found solace in sneaking out of the palace to watch the street magicians. Most of them were phonies looking for a spare shilling, naturally, but he’d quickly been able to distinguish between them and those with real magic. On that fateful day upon which the legislation was passed, he’d been drawn to an old lady and her daughter at the tail-end of the market, who were supposedly able to earn favours with any and all birds who flew into the skies of the kingdom. While the old lady would converse good-naturedly with the nocturnal birds that seemed to stop by in a steady stream despite it being noon-time, the younger girl and the raven perched on her shoulder had met Soonyoung’s curious eyes with a steely glance of their own. He’d watched her for a while; she was able to conjure dancing sparks for her audience of one, and somehow convinced an army of frogs to participate in some kind of song-and-dance routine. It only took one beckoning finger to get his feet to carry him closer, stumbling over himself at the opportunity to pet the feathers of the raven, which had glistened like the ripples of the sea under even the most suffocating layer of tar.

The girl had introduced herself as Seulgi. She was a witch, she’d declared, her head held high. Even the raven had ruffled his feathers in pride.

That was all fine and good with Soonyoung, really. His more pressing question had been if she might want to be friends.

To his surprise, she hadn’t agreed readily. Instead, her eyes had narrowed and she’d subjected him to nothing short of an interrogation. Who he was, exactly what it was he wanted from her; the works, really. At the end of it, she’d leaned into her raven conspiratorially, and Soonyoung had watched on in poorly-masked bewilderment as Seulgi looked to be listening with great seriousness to the unintelligible croaks of a raven.

Eventually, she’d agreed. Sure, she’d clasped his hand in a death grip and threatened all kinds of magical punishments (frogs dancing out of his mouth, nose and tail of a pig, her raven pecking his eyes out) should she find out he’d lied about anything he’d disclosed earlier, but they were now friends regardless.

“Don’t make me regret this,” she’d warned him, tossing her shiny black hair out of her face. Her raven squawked in protest. “A witch’s word can’t be broken.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Soonyoung had promised, and had even done a little, petrified curtsy to the raven as if to prove how serious he was. This, thankfully, had made the thoughtful tension slide off Seulgi’s face. Instead, she’d shuddered with laughter and linked arms with Soonyoung, eagerly inviting him in for a cup of tea.

It’s still the best cup of tea Soonyoung has ever had.

Looking out the window now as the moon wrenches itself forward to shine within the velveteen sky, Soonyoung distractedly fiddles with the bulb of moonstone perched on one of his rings. Of course, Jeonghan, Joshua and Seungkwan are entitled to their anger. He understands anger.

But he also understands that anger needs a backup plan; it’s useless on its own. They can have their coup, and whatever theatrics come with it. Pig’s blood, probably.

Soonyoung, on the other hand, has the fierce friendship of a witch and an eternal typhoon of closed-in angst to unleash. He isn’t worried.

***

He bursts into Seulgi’s cramped cottage on the edge of town later that night, finding the door already open in what he assumes is a sort of happy accident. As usual, her raven squawks a greeting to him, and he gives it a customary nod of acknowledgement.

“Soonyoung?” Seulgi calls from upstairs, her voice sounding far-off and dream-like. He jerks suddenly, trying to steady himself amidst the stinging smell of lavender that hangs in the air and crawls up his sinuses, making his eyes water. In the corner, a few sticks of incense burn in a skull which dangles from the ceiling, still grinning hollowly at him. The whole setup disturbs him, a sensory overload his body wasn’t prepared to handle.

“Down here,” Soonyoung rasps out, coughing into his sleeve. He quickly wipes his teary -- watery, watery -- eyes in the same motion, leaving deep red stains the colour of old blood on the ruby of his robes.

“Are you alright? Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have lit so much incense,” Seulgi groans, fussing over him as soon as she sweeps into the room whilst trying to fan the smoke away by flapping her hands uselessly.

“No, no, it’s perfectly fine,” Soonyoung tries to reassure her, although his voice all but deserts him at the end of his sentence. It breaks, splitting the word down the middle in a great fault that couldn’t have gone unnoticed. Seulgi, intuitive as always, chooses not to point it out. Instead, she crosses the room and rids the skull of the incense. The smell of lavender still permeates the air, but Soonyoung breathes a little easier without the constant assault of it.

“Well,” she starts, raking her eyes over him. “I can’t say I’m surprised you’re here.”

“Crystal ball did me a favour and called ahead?” he suggests, trying his luck at keeping his voice light and breezy. Seulgi had always had a particular knack for trying new channels through which she could harness all her magical energy; one month it was tarot cards; another it was pendulums; last he’d heard, she was trying to get her hands on a crystal ball of the clearest quartz.

“Yes, actually,” she responds without missing a beat, but Soonyoung can tell she’s pleased he remembered. But then her face falls, and a far more troubled expression takes over whatever small mirth she’d been kindling. “Which means I also know why you’re here, and what you’ve come to ask.”

“Do you? Works that well, does it?” Soonyoung can’t help but wonder out loud, and the raven croaks with indignation from the doorway.

“Yes, it does,” Seulgi rebutts, frowning at his disbelief. “Soonyoung, I can’t do it. I don’t have enough magic in me.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask!”

“I just told you, I already heard!”

“Well-” Soonyoung sputters momentarily, because she does have him there, “You don’t know the specifics of it!”

“When have I ever not known that you were gonna get us into some disaster? I _always_ know!” Seulgi retorts, her arms akimbo. “That’s the only way we get out of the disasters in question.”

“Okay fine, but-” Soonyoung raises his hands the minute he sees her expression darken, hoping that she’ll at least give him a minute to explain.

“Look, Soonyoung, I’m sorry your dad died. I really am. But I cannot and will not help you raise some poor bugger from the dead just because you feel like you need grief counselling,” she tells him decisively, her voice turning far more level as she watches him lower his hands. “I’m sorry,” she repeats, as if it’ll have any effect.

“Is that what it told you?” Soonyoung asks, nearly shocking himself at how unusually quiet his voice has become.

Seulgi shifts uncomfortably, then lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Sit down,” she instructs, gesturing to a chair that’s suddenly pulled itself out from under the ringed wood of her tabletop. Once Soonyoung has plopped himself down, arms still crossed, she leans forward. “All I’ve been told is that you want to interfere with the spirits of the dead in order to quell your own doubts.”

“That’s it? No set course of instructions?” Soonyoung asks, just to rile her up.

“Oh be quiet, you know it doesn’t work like that,” Seulgi huffs, smacking him on the arm. He rubs at it with an exaggerated grimace, and she rolls her eyes.

There’s a beat of comfortable quiet as they both melt a little, settling their defenses for the first time that night. And then, Soonyoung says, “Jeonghan’s orchestrating a coup against me.”

There’s another beat of silence, but this time it’s filled with Seulgi’s despair-filled gaze and a poorly suppressed groan. “Of course he would,” she mutters, her head held up only by the weight of her palms. “Fuck, I can’t say I didn’t expect it to be like this, but also...”

“Surprise,” Soonyoung says mirthlessly. She looks at him, completely unamused.

Then, finally, she lets out another sigh before rising to her feet and offering a hand to Soonyoung. “Right, then. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“We do?” Soonyoung asks, snapping his head up from the tabletop immediately.

“Don’t be annoying, we don’t have a moment to spare,” Seulgi hurries him along, then whistles lowly to her raven, who flaps noiselessly to perch on her shoulder.

“I mean, we could’ve gone a lot faster if _someone_ had just-”

“Not a word.”

“Right, right. Carry on.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?” is the first question Seulgi asks him as soon as they reach her upstairs nook. It’s even more cramped than the downstairs had been. Books without shelves have found new homes in teetering towers that spring up from the floorboards, their pages yellowing in the open air. Some of the piles have morbid little trinkets on top of them, like macabre stars atop a Christmas tree. Just in time, Seulgi’s question stops him from prodding at a particularly fiery orange crystal.

“No,” Soonyoung admits, dropping his hands sheepishly. Seulgi lets out another exasperated sigh, and he can’t help but feel bad for all the inconvenience he’s causing her.

“I swear, if you’re about to apologize-” Seulgi suddenly interrupts the silence of the room as he opens his mouth to do just that. “I didn’t expect you to come with a whole plan, anyway. I was just wondering if you had a preference.”

“It should be someone who’s had experience ruling before,” Soonyoung decides, chewing on his lip. He still manages to feel awful for making Seulgi do all the work. Perhaps it’s just because he’s used to moving fast, thinking fast; but the days had started to move with the viscosity and opaqueness of mud as soon as his father had fallen ill. He isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to this, falling through what remains of his life and needing other people to pick up the pieces.

“I was thinking of King Seungcheol, actually,” he suggests after a pause, and Seulgi whirls around to face him with a frown.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” she disagrees, folding her arms. The gloves of black lace that line her pale skin from fingertip to elbow crinkle under the motion, disrupting the smooth expanse.

“Do you think he’s too old? He’s only been dead for 100 years, so I figured he’d still be fairly fresh as compared to some crotchety old advisor. Plus, he died young!” Soonyoung reasons, beginning to fidget with his rings again.

“Don’t talk about him like you’re discussing the freshness of produce,” Seulgi warns him exasperatedly, but he can see her holding back a laugh. “But, really,” she starts again, her demeanor growing more serious. “I really don’t think raising another king to be your council is the best course of action. Think about it, we’re basically giving him enough firepower to come back from the realm of the dead and sort out any kind of unfinished business he might have. Who’s to say that doesn’t include regaining control of the kingdom? Do you really want to add one of the greatest kings of this land to your list of probable enemies?” 

“Ah,” Soonyoung says intelligently. Admittedly, he hadn’t considered that as too serious a possibility. More than anything, he’d just wanted someone who would understand the pressures of ruling, someone with whom he could share that sacred kinship. Seungcheol had been his first choice, having always felt like a faraway friend whenever he’d studied the previous ruling family’s lineage of the kings with his tutors. As a boy, he was nearly everything Soonyoung had wanted to be as a king - strong, steady, and a tyrant at times because power doesn’t yield itself to those who don’t seek it.

Of course, his father had initially been a strong contender against his idolisation of Seungcheol. He was soft and forgiving where Seungcheol had been relentless and cruel, attempting to replace years of traditional tyranny with the trust of the people. Soonyoung would’ve loved to think that this was an effective strategy to rule, as it theoretically and ethically should be. As things turn out, though, Soonyoung is of the opinion that sometimes authority has to squish the rage of the people like a bug underfoot because there’s very little that trust and peace talks can do should an angry mob accumulate outside your door. His distaste for his father’s methods had only worsened when he’d snuck off to see Seulgi in the days after a particularly brutal round of border talks with a rival kingdom further north. The rival king had made unreasonable demands for his end of control over the border, including an unrealistic increase in the amount of their goods which were to be bought by the city. His father had agreed without comment, not wanting to start a war.

In the streets that day, he’d heard the people curse his father’s name to hell and back. He’d heard that his father was going to impoverish them all if he kept trying to keep the peace. But between the resentment and the bubbling animosity, he’d also heard disappointment. Disappointed sighs fell from the lips of the people like raindrops, lamenting the loss of the king’s wife during childbirth and the inescapable grief that surrounded him as the reason for his spinelessness, what with that boy always hanging around him like he isn’t the reason his wife died.

On his worse days, Soonyoung wonders if his father’s steadily failing career as a man of royalty had been his fault. On his better days, Soonyoung fantasizes about tearing the old kingdom down and making them impenetrable; indomitable, even.

“What about his advisor, instead?” Seulgi suddenly asks, and he blinks at her in confusion. “For starters, he’d have thorough knowledge on the legislation so maybe he could fashion you a way out of this,” she elaborates, now resting her chin in her palm. “ _And_ he’d have been the one closest to Seungcheol. It gives you a way to him without actually having to risk your career.”

“Oh,” Soonyoung realises, now looking at her with new conviction in his eyes. “Jeon Wonwoo.” He remembers seeing a portrait of the young man in the textbook, just a page down from Seungcheol. The dust has gathered on his memory of the photograph, but he’s pretty sure the man in question had a distinctly studious disposition and a flair for the dramatic - if the mysterious circumstances of his death were anything to go by.

“Sure,” Seulgi shrugs, now sliding off her chair to retrieve the orange crystal that’d caught Soonyoung’s attention when he’d come in. “As long as you know who we’re summoning. Don’t want to get the wrong address with the dead, now.”

“We?” Soonyoung asks cautiously, and he can’t deny that the cage of his heart has begun rattling with great fervour. It takes him a good 30 seconds to realise it’s because he’s nervous; nervous about the way this was going to play out, nervous about meeting Jeon Wonwoo and nervous - _fearful_ , even - about the kind of awakening it’d inevitably bring. The sudden violence of the emotion amidst the gently lapping waves of numbness that had begun to lick at the shores of his life was, in short, unprecedented.

“Yes, we,” Seulgi confirms, then makes a grab for a very old, extremely dusty leatherbound book in the middle of one of her towers of organized chaos. Soonyoung doesn’t bother even trying to tease her about her sudden willingness to help him, because it isn’t sudden at all. She was always going to help him - they were unbreakable, after all. 

“What do you mean, ‘we’? I don’t have a single millilitre of magical blood in my system, I don’t see how I’m going to be able to help you summon a ghost-” Soonyoung is beginning to regret bringing this up.

“He’s not going to come back as a ghost, Soonyoung,” Seulgi tells him patiently, now flicking through the pages of the book with great intent. “We’re bringing him back as a revenant. Much more firepower than a little ghost. Also-”, she looks up at him sharply here, “Magic was used to save your life when you were born. It’s in your veins now, whether you think so or not.” 

Soonyoung raises his eyebrows, decidedly unconvinced. “That’s just a rumour.”

“Nuh-uh,” Seulgi retorts, and the childishness of it underneath the severity of the situation at hand is almost enough to make him laugh. “They say it in the witches circles. It’s true.”

“They’d say that now, wouldn’t they? Bias and all that?” Soonyoung tries to deny it, but an uneasy sensation is beginning to amass in the tips of his fingers.

“Do you think I’m biased enough to lie to you about this?” When Soonyoung makes no move to reply, she continues. “Your father came to a witch begging for her to save you because he couldn’t lose both his wife and baby boy in one night. It would’ve broken him beyond repair.”

“Don’t know how that was meant to help things,” Soonyoung mutters, now rubbing at his arm self-consciously. “He was broken anyway.” 

Seulgi fixes him under her steady gaze for a minute, her eyes boring holes straight into all the parts of himself he’d tried to hide from sight so a very public, very selfish disintegration could be prevented. Unfortunately (or fortunately. He isn’t sure.) she knows everything there is to know about him, so all of these miniature attempts at shrinking himself down are instantly proved useless. In this case, it only takes one look for her to know that he’s fighting hard in the trenches of his loss. She doesn’t press the matter any further.

“All I need you to do is place these two-” Seulgi holds up 2 crystals - one orange, and the other a strangely iridescent silver - “-on either side of the crystal ball. During the ritual, make sure that they don’t shift or fall. The energy of the circle needs to be maintained, or we’ll have a bit of a problem on our hands.”

“Bit of a problem?” Soonyoung repeats, snapping his head upwards to meet her eyes. The uneasiness has seeped back into his tone, and he eyes the crystals with distrust.

“Oh, you know, the gate between worlds will be flung open and the dead can visit whenever they want and wreak unsupervised havoc upon us all,” she replies.

“Right,” Soonyoung says. He’s gone very pale. “No moving the crystals.” 

“Not an inch.”

Silence reigns over them momentarily, lines of tension crossing the room tautly as neither of them speak. They’re weighed down by the seriousness of what’s about to happen, the kind of digging they’d be doing by bringing up all those ghosts. Surely they’d all be cloying to return to the realm of the living, Soonyoung worries. He doesn’t recall ever hearing a story of someone dying without leaving behind the frayed fabric of their life, the loose ends flapping uselessly in the wind to the tune of the anguished living. He should know, since he’s one of many in that seemingly eternal, pained chorus.

He weighs the crystals in his hands as he sits quietly, watching as Seulgi runs her hands reverently over some of the passages in the book with her eyebrows furrowed. The stones seem to thrum in his hands, even though they haven’t changed since he first laid eyes on them.

“Seulgi?” he calls out as he turns the bright orange stone in his hands, trying to examine it in the dim candlelight. “What are these, exactly?”

“The orange one is the Tiger’s Eye Quartz, and the shiny silver bit is hematite. They’re both just there to make sure the energy of the room stays up and flows well enough for us to communicate with the spirit,” she explains effortlessly, the words flowing off her tongue without hesitation. Soonyoung scrunches his face as he holds up the silver one to the light. It doesn’t have the same shine and magnetism of the Tiger’s Eye, and he decides that he likes that one a lot more.

“I’m surprised you didn’t know that, actually,” Seulgi interrupts his examination of the stones, and he realises she’s watching him with a slightly perplexed expression. “You and your father wear - wore - so much crystal jewellery, I figured you must’ve known the significance of them.”

Soonyoung shakes his head, trying to swallow the lump in his throat that had risen with Seulgi’s slip of the tongue. “I had no idea they were significant.” He doesn’t say that he now thinks that perhaps his father did, but never bothered to tell him.

“Well, they are,” Seulgi tells him, looking somewhat relieved at the change in topic. “The moonstone you always wear,” - she points to the copious number of rings on his hands, which he curls into fists instinctively - “is tied to the moon, obviously. So it’ll handle anything that has to do with cycles; it helps with insomnia, for one. Also reuniting estranged lovers, according to what I’ve heard.” 

Soonyoung can feel a strange, suffocating bubble of laughter rising in his throat, despite the fact that nothing about the situation was even the slightest bit funny. Of course, of course his father had claimed moonstone as his signature stone. He’s filled with the strange desire to start shedding the rings, like a serpent shedding its too-small skin. For some reason, this new knowledge having not been delivered to him by the lips of his father has unsettled him, and he feels very much like he’s pulling a patchwork quilt of intergenerational trauma around his shoulders. The jewellery, a stable source of identity for so long, now no longer feels like it belongs to him.

“But obviously there’s a whole range of other crystals you can pick from,” Seulgi pipes up again, noticing Soonyoung withdrawing further and further into himself. “Like this, see?” From behind her, she’s drawn out a large, black ball. In the dim light it looks totally opaque, but upon taking a closer look he realises it’s got a strange, almost imperceptible glow thrumming at the center of it. It quietens something within him, like a gentle pressure right in the middle of his chest. He sucks in a breath, steady as ever. “It’s made of black onyx, which has its own strengths too.”

“What’s the meaning of it?” he asks.

“Protection, usually. If you’re thinking about it traditionally, it can help with guarding you from external forces. But the real power of the onyx,” Here, she beckons him closer with a single finger, so reminiscent of the day they met. “The real power of the onyx is what part of yourself it guards you from. It heals the wounds you think will never scar over. It tells you that there’s no such thing as true death, for reunions will always come again.” She sits back now, carefully placing the crystal ball onto a stand in the middle of the table. “It’s similar to the moonstone, in that sense, just with less outward vulnerability.” 

“Oh,” Soonyoung breathes, and it all makes _so_ much sense. “Are we going to be using this one to summon the spirit, then?”

“We can,” Seulgi agrees, now eyeing the crystal ball with new interest. “I was going to get us to use the clear quartz one I have because it might help us visualise better, but the protection element of this could be useful.”

“Yeah, right,” Soonyoung says thoughtfully, as if he knows what he’s talking about.

“Right, then! We’re almost ready,” Seulgi announces triumphantly, springing out of her seat to grab a handful of what looks like a very fat cigar made of tightly-tied leaves. She begins using one of the steadily-melting candle stubs to light it, and the air is immediately filled with the cool, windy scent of mint laced with the harshness of fresh soil.

“What _is_ that?” Soonyoung asks, crinkling his nose. The scent isn’t bad, and it’s a definite relief from all the lavender that seemed to be haunting him, but it’s unusual enough to make him recoil.

“Sage,” Seulgi replies, and he doesn’t miss the strange look he gives her. “It’s meant to cleanse the energy of the room before we begin, just so we have a clean slate.”

She ambles back to him after leaving the disintegrating stub of sage to burn itself out in yet another miniature skull which sits on a pile of books. They work in silence after that, lighting spindly black candles which they place at all ends of the room in a beaming circle that dances at the edges. Over them, the crescent moon grins with malice and glints mockingly at the steadily advancing hands of daylight.

“We have to hurry,” Seulgi whispers quietly, just as they light the last of candles. “It’s almost light out, and it’ll never work then.”

“Shit,” Soonyoung curses, then quickly folds himself into the chair next to her. “Okay, what do you need me to do?”

“Just stay quiet and let me do the talking. Don’t say anything until I tell you to. In the meanwhile, I just need you to envision his face and hold on to the image of it, okay?” Seulgi instructs him, a rapid-fire sequence of sentences that end in a feverish holding of hands. Seulgi’s beginning to get nervous now, it’s radiating off of her in waves. He squeezes her hand uselessly, hoping desperately that it’s enough.

Seulgi shifts in her chair, a futile final attempt at trying to get comfortable in a room starting to teem with an intensity that doesn’t allow for kindness. Then, she sucks in a deep breath, and squeezes Soonyoung’s hand so tightly her knuckles pale. He gapes at the sudden pressure at first, floundering about and wondering if he’s already missed something. To his horror, Seulgi lets out a sharp exhale and her long, dark hair begins to float up around her, a cloak of darkness that moves through the air with serpentine grace. Soonyoung’s heart clenches with worry, and he tries to struggle forward and place himself in front of Seulgi, a buffer between her and whatever entity it was that was causing all this chaos. He’s seen her do magic before, of course, but it’d never felt as malicious as this.

“Kwon Soonyoung,” she hisses, in a voice that’s very much not her own. “Return to your seat. And think only of the spirit you wish to summon.”

“But-” Soonyoung starts to protest, then gasps and very nearly falls backwards as a pale, green light bursts from behind Seulgi’s eyes, drowning out her irises and the whites of her eyes. The green light is pale as it is terrible, and it cuts through the air in a thin, translucent film. He can barely stand to look at her now, all lit up like this from within. Something terrible shifts inside him as he realises that she looks ghostly like this, skeletal and hollow. For a moment, all he can remember are cold, dead lips and a pair of eyes that had been equal parts horrifying and unseeing.

“The spirit!” that same hoarse voice wrenches itself out of Seulgi, flinging the words at Soonyoung. “The spirit named Jeon Wonwoo! You must let him in! The witch seeks him,” it tells him, slowly turning to face him. “She will never find him if you cannot control your own mind, young king.” A shiver runs up his spine and he looks down at their joined hands with bile rising in his throat. It’s too much. Behind him the table rattles and shakes insistently, very nearly displacing the crystals from their points at either end. A sob wrenches itself from his throat now, and he hates how it comes out so feral and broken; it seems that the breakage knows no bounds, an inherited cracking that he wishes so deeply to dispel.

And dispel it he must. Weakness threatens to overwhelm him now, crawling up and out of the shadows in the sludge of black tar that spreads over the walls of his brain. It slows the cogs, gets into the gears, and teases a haunting of a scale which would never, ever leave him. His father’s face flashes upon his eyelids, which he’d tightly shut in a strange mixture of a refusal to see and the pain of wanting to so very badly. It’s the king, decaying once again as he had in his last days. He looks physically weak, drained of all the soft, watery opaqueness which had made him so gentle a father and so benevolent a king. Without it, he possesses only the hardness of bones that peek through skin and have started to gnaw on themselves from the inside out. And then, to Soonyoung’s horror, the image opens its mouth and speaks.

“Soonyoung,” the voice of his father speaks in a low whisper, but it’s his voice, it’s one he recognises, he hasn’t been _lost_ , “My son, what has become of you?”

“Father,” Soonyoung whimpers, and his hands ache to touch but they’ve suddenly become lead weights attached to his wrists. He stays still, vulnerable.

“The witch tells us all that you seek a wraith,” his father frowns now, finally meeting Soonyoung’s gaze. His eyes have gone a milky white, and it’s enough to bring another wave of nausea over Soonyong. “Do you really think you need a wraith to tell you how to rule? Have I not taught you enough?”

“No, Father,” Soonyoung begins to cry out, but the sound comes out incomprehensible and sad, like the howl of a wounded animal.

“You bring magic into the kingdom, you call upon the most unholy of spirits - it seems you wish for nothing more than to sully our name. _My_ name,” his father draws closer now, and Soonyoung has to swallow a scream as he’s certain he feels the press of those familiar rings around his forearms. “Is this what you want? A lifetime of decay before you?”

It’s this question that echoes off the walls within the empty vessel of his body, the question that snakes into his veins and perches itself right at the front of his mind. How could his father - weak with grief all his life - have the nerve to be asking him about a lifetime of a decay?

“No,” Soonyoung tells him, lifting his head to look his father straight in his lifeless eyes. “That’s not what I want. I don’t want to be like you. This kingdom deserves someone who can be strong. You only knew how to yield.”

“Has your anger sullied all your memories of me, your dear father?” the spectre moans now ; a hideous, guttural sound that makes the walls shake. “Grief has broken your heart; why have you not yet put it down?”

“Put it down?” Soonyoung all but shrieks, and suddenly the light changes. The pale green which had previously only hung in the shadows and climbed up the wall in its own inconspicuous way now doubles in intensity, dousing everything in its heavy fog. “How can I put it down when you never did? You left me the same way Mother left you, and you expect me to be able to put this down?”

“I never meant to-” the spectre begins, but Soonyoung only scowls at its interruption.

“It’s not about intent! All my life, I watched you skulk about and lose yourself in paintings and mirrors. I convinced myself you were doing the best you can with having me for a son, but now I wonder why you kept all that hurt only for yourself. You hoarded it like gold, drenched yourself in pain, and now you expect me not to bathe in those same puddles?” Soonyoung’s screaming now, the words he’d been holding in the chambers of his heart now clawing themselves out of his throat. “I lost you long ago, and I’ve been grieving ever since. I can’t put it down, Father - this is all I know. And it’s terrible that it is, but it’s all I have. ”

“My son-”

“No!” Soonyoung yells, and it’s with that final shriek that the spectre draws backward and he can finally breathe again. “Begone! I don’t want to see you anymore,” his voice, which had burst forth once more in the shock of finality now simmers downward, like a dying flame. His father looks sadly upon his tear-streaked face one last time, then disappears into the walls without another word.

If only ridding oneself of grief was that simple.

“Where is the wraith who calls himself Jeon Wonwoo?” Seulgi’s voice echoes from beside him, and he turns to her in amazement. Her hair still floats behind her like some humane twist on the horrifying head of Medusa, but her eyes have returned to their usual friendly colour. 

“Who seeks me?” a meek voice calls, and Soonyoung squirms uncomfortably in his seat, half-anticipating yet another decaying corpse from his past.

“The future king of this land, the same land in which you were buried and are thus tied to,” Seulgi answers obediently.

“Tied to? No, I’m not tied to the land. No one is. I’m tied to _my_ king, the one who knew me in life. Why should I serve someone new?” the voice retorts, now sounding deeper and far more confident.

“What are you willing to offer?” Seulgi hisses, and it takes Soonyoung a good 5 seconds to realise she’s speaking directly to him. Initially, he draws a blank. And then the answers presents itself so clearly to him he wonders how he could’ve ever thought otherwise.

“A life for a life,” Soonyoung speaks now, despite Seulgi casting a warning glance his way. “My life has already been tainted. The people don’t need yet another king who would knowingly squander away his reign on the madness of grief. Make me an effective ruler for the time I’m here; make it so that the people may prosper, and have their livelihoods kept safe. After that, you may do what you will with the remaining force of my full life. Advise whoever comes next; pray to the gods that they’re better than me.”

Silence now settles itself into the room, languid and soft across the space.

“Soonyoung,” Seulgi begins to speak in a broken whisper, but is interrupted by Wonwoo’s voice emanating from the crystal ball before them.

“You’d knowingly give up your life for the benefit of others?” Wonwoo questions, and a sly edge has perched itself onto the edges of his tone. “What about the grief you’ll leave in your wake? Will no one cry for you?”

“With all due respect, I doubt it,” Soonyoung answers easily. From beside him, Seulgi whimpers, and reaches over to grasp at his forearm with her free hand.

“Your friend seems to think otherwise,” Wonwoo remarks, clearly amused. “Perhaps you should consider whether you truly wish to die.”

“There’s nothing to be considered,” Soonyoung argues, because being roundabout is easier than saying the words ‘I do’ when he doesn’t know. He just doesn’t know.

“You seem awfully ready to die for someone who’s about to take up a post of great importance,” Wonwoo remarks, before he lets out a small, almost defeated sigh. “But fine. It seems like you’ve already made up your mind. We have a deal.” Wonwoo agrees reluctantly, just as the crystal ball begins to tremble. Overhead, the wind howls and threatens to splinter the little cottage; but just when they think they’re on the verge of complete breakage, everything ceases. The crystal ball hums, and a pale, tired face appears upon its dark surface.

“Well, hello,” the man in the glass says mildly, peering at Soonyoung’s red-rimmed eyes and Seulgi’s tear-stained face. “You both look like you’ve had quite the night.”

“Wonwoo?” Soonyoung verifies immediately, before he can say another word.

“Who else would I be?” Wonwoo questions, raising a single eyebrow. His face is as hollow and thin as Soonyoung had remembered from the old picture in the textbook; it’s a wonder he isn’t in sepia tones right now.

“Lots of people would jump at the chance to return to Earth after death,” Seulgi retorts, speaking for the first time since her earlier vocalization of anguish. “He’s just checking.”

“Hm,” Wonwoo says noncommittally, his eyes darting between them both with great interest. “Now if he’s the king, who might you be?”

“Seulgi,” she answers, sniffling once before she holds her head high. “I’m his friend.”

“And a witch, it seems,” Wonwoo adds, but that same strange glint is still in his eyes. Soonyoung wouldn’t necessarily call it malicious or unfriendly; it’s just downright weird at this point, seeing someone he’d only known through photos come to life and act like the human being they were. Snapshots, it seemed, created an insurmountable distance. “You’re the one who was falling about trying to find me.”

“Falling about?” Soonyoung repeats incredulously, turning to look at Seulgi with disbelief. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Just as Seulgi opens her mouth to answer, Wonwoo beats her to it. He’s clearly enjoying himself. “Oh, she created quite the mess bursting into the Eternal Realm like that. Got past the guards and everything, she did, absolutely screaming her head off about trying to find ‘ _the spirit named Jeon Wonwoo_ ’ - god, you lot are so formal,” Wonwoo scoffs, then laughs at her scandalised expression. “Oh, don’t look so down, I’m only teasing you. Being dead does get very boring, you know. Hardly anyone to hold a decent conversation with.” And then, turning to Soonyoung with an uncharacteristically serious expression, Wonwoo says: “You should keep her close. Not many people are lucky enough to find friends who would willingly go to the ends of the earth for them.”

For a second, Soonyoung just blinks at him, totally caught off-guard. “I know,” is what he finally settles on saying, squeezing Seulgi’s hand as he does.

“And yet, you agreed to die at the end of all this. Not the wisest of decisions, I can see why you needed me badly enough to come and wake me from what was supposed to be eternal rest,” Wonwoo laments, now running a hand through his curly, brown mass of hair.

“Sorry about that,” Soonyoung offers a weak apology, now reaching up to scratch the back of his neck self-consciously. “It’s just...I’m in a bit of a situation here, and I wouldn’t actually consider anyone on my council to be a good fit for an advisory position. You’re the best thing I’ve got, at this point.”

Wonwoo grimaces at this, furrowing his eyebrows. “Must be a pretty terrible council if you can’t think of a single person you’d trust enough to be your right-hand man.”

“They’re not terrible, per se, it’s just-”

“Soon, I hate to tell you this, but they _are_ pretty awful. They’re organising a coup against you, for god’s sake-” Seulgi butts in, but Wonwoo makes a panicked noise that stops her in her tracks.

“A coup? This early on? What are you, like 3 weeks in?” Wonwoo questions, now running both his hands through his hair in a way that would make Soonyoung worry about early-onset balding had it not been for the fact that Wonwoo was dead.

“Not even,” Soonyoung groans, now slumping so his chin is pressed into his palm. “My coronation’s in 2 days time. Apparently, they’re planning to do it then.”

“It’s tomorrow,” Seulgi suddenly realises, sitting up straighter. “Your coronation is tomorrow, Soonyoung. We’ve been here all night. Look, it’s already nearly dawn!” She points out the window, where the pale blue rays of dawn sunlight have already began stretching themselves out on the grass.

“Fuck,” Soonyoung curses, tearing his eyes away from the fragments of sunlight to cast a panicked glance into the waiting crystal ball. “Seulgi, can Wonwoo still...be here during the day?”

“Fuck,” Seulgi repeats, now also looking into the crystal ball with great distress. “I mean, I suppose he can. It’s just his consciousness using the crystal ball to communicate right now, so as long as you focus on keeping his presence in this realm it should be alright. If anything, the strength of the onyx should help,” she elaborates, but then worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “Although...are you planning on getting him a corporeal body? It might look a bit weird if you were to be consulting a crystal ball in the royal halls.”

“He can do that?” Wonwoo interjects before Soonyoung has the chance to reply. “Get me my body back?” There’s a beat of tense silence, and Soonyoung looks between the sheer wonder on Wonwoo’s face to the pale worry on Seulgi’s.

“I think it’s still possible,” she says slowly, tapping her fingers on the tabletop in a lilting rhythm. “Wonwoo, you haven’t taken the ferry yet, have you?”

“No,” Wonwoo admits, his demeanor now sinking quickly into one of annoyance. “There’s a waiting list. Whoever heard of the Plains of Paradise being full? Surely, there’s got to be a plan for these things. Horribly inefficient, if you ask me.”

“Right,” Soonyoung says slowly, trying to wrap his head around the possibility of snaking queues of the dead shuffling through the Eternal Realm, his father included. A small shudder runs its way up his spine at the thought, but he’s quick to suppress it before anyone else notices.

“What we can do is this,” Seulgi begins cautiously, and both men turn to her with great attentiveness. “We can go to his grave tonight to get his coin - it can be sort of a payment, for us doing the ritual. Then,” here, she swallows roughly, “when the time comes; Soonyoung, you give him the coin meant for you. It’ll close the cycle of the ritual and seal his presence here, while you…” she trails off, now intertwining the fingers of her own two hands and refusing to look at him as she blinks back tears.

The room has gone stiff, and very, very silent. Not the same kind of silence that had reigned earlier, warming itself in the first rays of sun and relief after the strength of the ritual. This is the kind of silence that breaks glass and starts wars.

“Sorry,” Seulgi starts, then catches herself. “No, actually, I’m not. I think I’m allowed to be upset over the fact that my best friend - since we were kids, Soonyoung, _kids_ \- has agreed to die. How come I don’t get a say? How come I don’t get to jump in and tell you that you’re not allowed to die, how come I can’t say you’re not allowed to go where I can’t follow? And yet I’m just,” she stops suddenly, pressing her fingers to her sweaty temples, “I’m sat here figuring out rational, permissible ways for you to die. How is that fair?” She presses the heels of her palms into her eyes, and Soonyoung is overwhelmed with the urge to give her a hug. Initially, he tries to hold it off, but the reminder of their limited time together is enough of a catalyst. He scoots forward slightly, letting her tuck her face into the crook of his neck.

Soonyoung catches Wonwoo’s eye as him and Seulgi embrace. The other man looks extremely uncomfortable, and has taken to looking elsewhere and surveying the surroundings of Seulgi’s cottage.

“Sorry,” Soonyoung tries to mouth at him, but Wonwoo only shakes his head.

“Don’t,” Wonwoo whispers so softly he very nearly doesn’t catch it. All the same though, he understands. This isn’t a mourning he can apologise for, not when he’s the same person who caused it.

***

“I have to return to the castle,” Soonyoung finally declares, several tearful minutes later. “They’ll want to rehearse for the coronation.”

Seulgi immediately scrambles up from her seat, her red-rimmed eyes blazing. “What exactly do you plan to do about that?”

Soonyoung shrugs tiredly but honestly, far too weighed down by the events of that night to be thinking coherently. “I was planning to just get Wonwoo to use his wraith-y powers to enact some great Shakespearean intervention. Corpses rising out of their graves, blood in the morning dew, an eclipsed moon on the wrong day - you know, anything to scare them off for now.”

Seulgi and Wonwoo blink at him in total, unified disbelief.

“I was only joking,” Soonyoung clarifies, then looks down at Wonwoo, who peers at him with poorly-disguised relief through the crystal ball. “Unless…”

“No more corpses,” Seulgi immediately stops him, her eyes hardening. “Also, remember this is your coronation. If the people see all these terrible omens right before they crown you, imagine the kind of chaos that could unfold.”

At this, Soonyoung visibly deflates. “Right,” he murmurs, then looks to Wonwoo, who seems to be muttering to himself now. “Any ideas?”

“If you just wanted to scare them off, why not send them those omens in dreams instead?” Wonwoo suggests. “It’ll be targeted, then. Do you know what time they usually awaken?”

“The first council meeting of the day is at 10, so I suppose by 9?” Soonyoung guesses, trying to look to Seulgi for confirmation. Unfortunately, she looks just about as confident as he feels - which is to say, not at all.

“Good, we’ve still got about 3 hours, then,” Wonwoo calculates easily, then nods at Seulgi, who only looks bewildered.

“I don’t know how to do dream magic, Wonwoo, and I certainly doubt I could learn it within the span of 3 years, let alone 3 hours,” Seulgi steps backward, raising her hands in front of her.

Wonwoo’s eyebrows shoot upwards at her admission, and he gapes at her for a second before he settles. “What kind of magic do they teach nowadays?” he mutters, but it’s loud enough that both Soonyoung and Seulgi can hear it.

“They don’t,” Soonyoung answers him, and Wonwoo turns to him with a blank stare.

“What do you mean, they _don’t_? Have they removed it from the syllabus? Awful choice, dream magic can be so very useful-”

“No,” Soonyoung emphasises. “I mean, magic is outlawed. It’s not allowed anymore. Seulgi’s had to learn everything she can all on her own.”

There’s another pin-drop silence before Wonwoo says, “Oh, dear me.” 

And then, ever so mildly: “I suppose I’ll send the dreams, then.”

“That’d be much better, I think,” Soonyoung agrees cautiously, and Seulgi nods her own agreement. “For now, at the very least.” Wonwoo might be more powerful than Seulgi, but there’s very little he could to totally replace her in his own heart.

For a minute, they both stare at Wonwoo as he squeezes his eyes shut and mutters several incantations under his breath in a language that hasn’t seen the light of day for 100 years.

As he does so, Soonyoung grabs Seulgi’s hand again, and rests his head on her shoulder so that his own dark hair tickles her neck. He expects her to move away, to push him off gently the way she always has; instead, she sags, and places her own head on top of his.

“I’m sorry,” Soonyoung tries again, and again Seulgi sighs.

“There’s nothing we can do now,” she admits, clutching his hand between both of hers. “Just promise me that until it’s time - until you absolutely have to go - you’ll be safe.”

“Of course I will,” Soonyoung promises, but even that feels like a lie after everything he’s put her through. He’s marching towards an ever-advancing death now; how could he ever pretend that anything he did from here on out was safe? “Wonwoo will protect me,” he tries to joke, but Seulgi only clicks her tongue.

“No, he won’t,” she tells him, and he feels a strange knot tighten itself in his stomach at her clear dismissal of Wonwoo. “You can take his professional advice, but don’t let him too close. At the end of the day, he’s a wraith - soon to be a revenant. I wouldn’t put it past him to get your expiry date pushed forward,” she whispers into his hair, trying to keep the words in a place only they know. Then, she taps one of the intricate rings on his hand. “Be careful. Set your jewellery with the onyx instead. Moonstone’s no good for things like this.”

“I will,” he promises, at the same time that Wonwoo opens his eyes and says: “It’s done.”

Seulgi and Soonyoung sit up, untangling themselves from the embrace. Wonwoo watches them, thoroughly unimpressed. Neither of them notice.

“We should go,” Soonyoung says again, and Seulgi nods this time. She ambles quickly over to the far end of the room, where several bags of cloth hang from hooks secured onto her wooden door.

“Take him back in this,” she advises, holding out the bag for Soonyoung to carefully deposit the crystal ball. “And don’t worry about bringing it back. I’d rather you keep it.”

“Thank you,” he tells her, then pulls her into a hug before he can stop himself. “I’ll see you again tonight.”

“You better,” she replies, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. And then, with a final sigh, she detaches.

“Goodbye, Seulgi,” Wonwoo’s muffled voice comes from within the bag. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Goodbye, Wonwoo,” she replies, then rolls her eyes at Soonyoung. “See you tonight.”

***

The walk back to the castle is actually far more of a sprint, and involves about 30 litres more sweat than Soonyoung was planning on.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters to himself under his breath as he goes, his shoes producing a very conspicuous clicking sound against the pavement with every step he takes. Between that and the ruby robes he still dons, he admits he might’ve made a small error in terms of suitable attire for sneaking in and out of the castle without detection.

“Is this your first time sneaking out?” Wonwoo asks mildly, but even without seeing his face, Soonyoung knows he’s being made fun of.

“I used all my black robes for the funeral,” he hisses back, then conducts his face to resemble a smile as he passes the vendor of a fruit stall, who gives him a toothless smile as he goes. “Just out to pick some oranges!” he calls in a much louder voice, waving at him.

“Are oranges even in season? One would think it’s still winter around here, god,” Wonwoo mutters, his voice filled with concern.

“It’s just really cold this summer, for some reason,” Soonyoung clarifies, wheezing in relief as he sees the doors of the castle looming up ahead. “But it’s very nearly autumn now, so I suppose there’s not much to be done about it.”

“Isn’t anyone worried about that?” Wonwoo asks again, just as Soonyoung dashes past the guards who salute him as he goes. “I’d be worried.”

“Not particular..particularly,” Soonyoung pants, now heaving himself up a flight of stairs to his room at the very top of the tower. “Everyone’s too busy grieving…..the king.”

“Not you, though?” Wonwoo inquires, and it very nearly makes Soonyoung stop in his tracks.

“Whatever gave you that impression?”

“You just don’t seem very sad,” Wonwoo answers honestly. 

“Would you prefer if I were to lie about all day, wailing and sobbing till my voice disappears from my throat?” Soonyoung asks sarcastically, his shoulders sagging in relief as he finally pulls himself through the doors of his own room.

“No,” Wonwoo replies. “Of course not.” There’s a second of silence before Wonwoo finally asks: “Are you sad?”

Soonyoung thrusts his hands into the cloth bag, now sitting on his perfectly made, untouched bed. He lifts the crystal ball into the air, holding Wonwoo at eye-level. The other man is watching him carefully, waiting for a response.

“All the time,” Soonyoung finally admits with a sad little smile, before placing the hulk of black onyx on his bedside table. 

“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo tells him sincerely, his face now even more pale in the dawn light. “Maybe one day, you’ll be reunited. In the Plains. That’s what the stories say, don’t they?”

“They do say that,” Soonyoung agrees quietly, now sinking to the floor so he can be on the same level as Wonwoo. “But I don’t think it’s true. Not for me, at least.”

“Why not?”

“I told him I never wanted to see him again.”

Wonwoo begins to laugh, but stops himself when he realises that Soonyoung’s completely serious. “You mean before he died, right? One of those things that you said in anger?”

Now it’s Soonyoung’s turn to laugh, but it comes out hollow and mirthless. “No,” he says, and he just can’t seem to wipe that strange, sad smile off his face. “Earlier this morning, I saw him - just before you arrived. Things were said. And then I told him I never wanted to see him again.”

“Harsh,” Wonwoo remarks, clearly trying to lighten the mood. Instead, the word hangs in the air and dissipates without its intended effect. “What makes you think he won’t come back anyway?”

Soonyoung shakes his head at this, too tired to relive several generations of pain all at once. “He just won’t. He’s never been the kind to argue.”

“Not even for his own son?”

“Ha,” Soonyoung says, even though there’s nothing even remotely funny about the situation at hand. “Definitely not for me.”

Thankfully, Wonwoo seems to have grown tired of asking questions he only seems to receive cryptic answers to. Once, Soonyoung might have had the audacity to feel bad for stopping his litany of curiosity, but today he’s tired and worn and only half of himself. It’s not a day for questions.

He stands, shedding his robe to reveal his ruffled undershirt the same creamy colour of Swiss coffee. In the chaos of the nighttime, its sleeves have bunched up at his elbows like the petals of some crumpled flower on the pavement, and most of the delicate ruffles on the chest have been crushed. Soonyoung sighs defeatedly, trying to salvage the sleeves at the very least.

“What’s wrong?” Wonwoo inquires, his voice now soft and inquisitive rather than pointed and prying. Thank god, Soonyoung thinks.

“This is my favourite shirt, but it’s gotten all crumpled, see?” Soonyoung lifts up the sleeve to show him the carnage. “I’m just lucky the embroidery on the chest is fine,” he says again, more to himself as he examines the line of deep blue periwinkles that creep down the plunging neckline of the shirt. “It’s all hand-stitched, you know.”

“Yes,” Wonwoo says faintly in agreement. “It looks perfectly fine.”

“Good,” Soonyoung beams. “That’s the first good thing to happen today.”

“Lucky you.”

“Right,” Soonyoung declares decisively, appearing to have not heard Wonwoo. “I’m going to take a quick bath, and then I’ll head downstairs to check on the proceedings for the coronation,” he lists off, talking more to himself than to Wonwoo as he picks out a particularly elaborate black robe, lined with a shining gold stitching that claws its way up the base of it in tendrils. “I don’t suppose you’ll need to come along, unless you want me to stick that great big crystal down the front of my shirt,” he calls to Wonwoo, popping his head out from behind his wardrobe door.

“No, absolutely not,” Wonwoo shoots him down immediately, but to Soonyoung’s surprise he looks far more embarrassed than horrified. “There’ll be absolutely no need for that, thank you very much. You can just tell me what happens afterwards.”

“Whatever you’d like,” Soonyoung replies teasingly, then flings his towel over his shoulder before disappearing into the bathroom. He makes sure to remove his undershirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion and laying it on the rack. His necklaces - moonstone still shimmering mockingly in all of them - bounce against his chest, and he lets out an annoyed groan. “Wonwoo?” he calls, wrenching open the bathroom door.

“Weren’t you going to- oh, dear,” Wonwoo cuts himself off as Soonyoung appears in view, sweaty and annoyed and very shirtless.

“Could you remind me to get the jeweller to change all my accessories to black onyx? Seulgi told me to do it, but it completely slipped my mind on the way up,” Soonyoung instructs, absentmindedly fiddling with trying to get the dim light of day to pass through the moonstone. Seulgi was right about its vulnerability; this wasn’t a stone that could endure very much.

“I’m not a personal assistant, I’m an _advisor_ ,” Wonwoo deadpans, but Soonyoung has already waltzed off without so much as a ‘thank you’ thrown over his shoulder.

The bathroom door slams in his wake, but as soon as he gets past the door he kneels, pressing his ear to the door. When he hears Wonwoo curse softly to himself, and then say something that sounds an awful lot like ‘fucking pretty’, he stands. A sigh of relief escapes him, and he pushes his dark, slightly sweaty hair back from his forehead. Using his looks hadn’t exactly been on the agenda for dealing with his own personal undead advisor, but he’d gotten desperate after the horrifying series of questions Wonwoo had seen fit to bludger him with as soon as they’d been alone. Discussing sadness and the nature of his grief was just all too much, far too much after a night like that. If it’d been a different day; if he’d had a different story; if he wasn’t so averse to tenderness, he might’ve given Wonwoo the barest fragments of the truth. Unfortunately for them, it was that day in particular, there was no other story to be told, and tenderness was something he wouldn’t say he’s ever actually experienced.

Lucky for him, he’d had practice at the local taverns; when playing a peasant boy for the night got too personal and the other men and their wandering hands wanted to know where he lived, what he did during the day, how he liked his eggs cooked - then, it would be time to show them a sliver of shoulder or the dip of a collarbone and let their mouths fold around something else. It worked every time, of course. The only difference is that he actually felt the shame bubble up in his chest, hot and suffocating, when he’d used it on Wonwoo. He doesn’t want to dwell on why that was. Instead, he steps into his bath, closes his eyes, and lets the water push his head down. Then, he screams where not a single soul can hear him.

The preparations for the coronation are exceedingly dull, and everyone around him is a dimwit - these are the two conclusions Soonyoung manages to come to after his 2nd hour of sitting in what must be the world’s most uncomfortable throne. He wouldn’t be surprised if his ass were to be totally fused to it by the end of rehearsal, and he’d have to walk around with a throne for a rear end. That would certainly put a damper on his nighttime activities, far more than any of the restrictions his father had tried to impose.

The only interesting thing that’s happened thus far was witnessing the sheer panic on half the royal jewellers and tailors faces when he made his request for all his jewellery - including his crown - to be changed to black onyx. There’d been a general wave of panic as they’d realised how much work was to be done, and after that they’d all flitted off and left him alone, dawdling in this chair. He’s bored enough that he half considers going back upstairs and smuggling Wonwoo down in the inner pocket of his robes. At least he’d be able to provide some entertainment, or at least give him a status report on the nature of the dream omens.

Just as he’s about to untangle himself from his unceremonious position on the throne, the doors burst open. Jeonghan, Seungkwan and Joshua all stumble in, falling over themselves in their haste to get to him. He watches with poorly-disguised amusement as they come to a sudden stop, wobbling into identical bows. He also doesn’t miss the way Jeonghan pulls his council-robes out from under where Seungkwan’s foot has caught on them, nearly sending the blonde man sprawling.

Ignoring the chaos, Joshua greets him with a simple, steady, “My Lord.”

“Good morning, boys. You’re all up early today. The meeting isn’t for another half-hour,” Soonyoung feigns ignorance in his greeting, but takes his time raking his eyes over the features of all 3 council members. Jeonghan’s eyes are perpetually wide, but today they carry the distinct, manic air of someone who’s seen far more than they’re supposed to. Joshua looks steady, but Soonyoung can see the sweat beginning to trickle down his neck as he swallows roughly. Seungkwan has paled, and his hands shake. A small, secret smile blooms in his treacherous heart, and he sends a silent prayer of thanks to Wonwoo.

“My Lord,” Joshua repeats again, then stands, pulling himself to his full height. “We have something..rather disturbing to report.”

“Oh?” Soonyoung widens his eyes, then arranges his limbs into their proper placements for sitting on a throne. “Out with it, then.”

“We’ve all had - that is, the three of us - rather disturbing, but very much identical dreams,” Jeonghan begins, his voice almost a whisper. “And these dreams, sire, the things they’ve shown us..”

“The end of the earth, sire, the elements are blending together to tell us the end times are nigh,” Seungkwan interjects, knotting his fingers into his pale, blond hair with great distress.

“The moon extinguishes itself, and the dew of the morning is dyed red with blood, my Lord,” Joshua elaborates, but it looks like he’s physically trying to swallow the next words that come out of his mouth. “And my Lord, if I may..”

Soonyoung nods his permission, and Joshua bounds easily up the steps to the throne. In a whisper, he continues: “Corpses rise from the grave, and they run through our streets speaking in tongues, sire.”

“And what do they say?” Soonyoung asks, leaning in closer to Joshua. “In these tongues. What do they tell you?”

“They say…”

“Yes?”

“They say: ‘ _You’ll never be king._ ’” Joshua’s voice changes suddenly, low and vengeful in its cadence - a perfect replica of the one that had escaped Seulgi the previous night.

“What?” Soonyoung blurts, turning to look directly into Joshua’s eyes. The other man startles, nearly falling off the raised platform where the throne sits.

“Sire?”

“What did you say?” Soonyoung demands, now standing with his fists clenched. “Just now, what did you say the corpses told you?”

“They- they said that not a soul shall win,” Joshua stutters in his repetition, his hand held over his heart. “Sire, are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, perfectly fine,” Soonyoung dismisses his concern with a wave of a hand, pressing his free one to the bridge of his nose. “My apologies. Didn’t get much sleep last night, what with the coronation and all,” he lies, trying to coax out a bright smile despite his thudding heart.

“Certainly, but sire-” Seungkwan begins, now stepping forward. “What do you think it might mean?”

“Not a clue,” Soonyoung answers breezily, crossing his legs and slouching down into his previous position. “Not unless any of you gentlemen has some kind of running bet in the taverns, or an ongoing game of chess. I’d say the stakes aren’t looking too good for you.” No one laughs.

“With all due respect, my lord, don’t you think this could be about-” Jeonghan begins, but Soonyoung cuts him off.

“No, and I don’t wish to hear anything of the sort unless you want a one-way ticket to the depths of the Hollow Lands,” Soonyoung warns, and the threat of exile manages to quieten them. “Now: was there anything of actual substance you wished to tell me or will that be all?”

There’s a quiet murmur; but the general consensus seems to be a ‘no’. For good measure, Soonyoung dismisses them and warns them not to come back to the council meeting without drinking a strong cup of chamomile tea each. It’s only when their backs have turned and the door’s long been shut that he slumps into his seat, gnawing on the skin of his thumb until it very nearly bleeds.

That same guttural voice had come back to haunt him; he was almost certain he’d heard it’s putrid tone snaking out from between Joshua’s lips, whether the other man knew it or not. And the words, in themselves carrying both a vengeance and a promise that showed no signs of stopping - what could be done?

He jumps from his seat, pacing around the throne room as the walls start to swim. Perhaps he was just tired; perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him. After all, he’d seen the likes of ghosts and spirits and possessed friends all within the span of a night; surely he had the right to be a little bit paranoid and very much exhausted.

“Your majesty?” a timid voice echoes through the throne room, and Soonyoung’s eyes search the space fervently until they land on a little girl who stands by the doorway, his new crown in her hands.

“Ah, the jeweller’s daughter,” he murmurs under his breath, more as a comfort to himself rather than an actual declaration. “Come in, come in.”

“I’ve brought your crown,” she informs him, hoisting the pillow of emerald-coloured velvet as she hurries over.

“I can see that,” Soonyoung smiles, but it slides off his face as he notices the great black bird perched on her shoulder. “Is that a raven?” he asks, but even as the words come out of his mouth he knows he’s asking a futile question.

“Nope, she’s a crow,” the girl tells him, completely oblivious to his building fear. “They look alike, but they’re actually very different. Ravens like to travel in pairs, but crows always go around in groups.”

“Why’s yours on her own, then?” Soonyoung questions, trying to keep his voice level.

“I don’t know,” the girl replies easily, then exchanges an almost knowing glance with the bird on her shoulder. “She just showed up yesterday and decided to stay.”

Soonyoung nods. His throat has gone very dry. He could really use a glass of water.

“Do you think she misses her family?” he asks instead, clutching the crown to his chest.

“I’m her family now,” the girl replies, her voice growing prickly and defensive. “I’m part of her murder.”

Soonyoung doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, his eyes widen. “What’d you say?”

The girl looks at him with clear triumph in her eyes, and he very nearly bends over double with the nausea that’s rising in his throat. “Don’t you know, sire? A flock of crows is called a murder. ”

When he returns to his bedroom, Soonyoung doesn’t say a word to Wonwoo about all the strange omens he’s been on the receiving end of. He isn’t sure why. If anything, the rational part of his brain is screaming at him to at least tell Wonwoo about the disturbing warning the corpses had passed on to Joshua, just to see if he’d played a part in curating it. Unfortunately, the rational part of his brain doesn’t have the wheel thanks to his bone-deep exhaustion, so instead of sharing his burdens and going to Wonwoo for advice like he’s meant to, he flops into bed and groans unintelligibly.

“How’d it go?” Wonwoo asks immediately, appearing from the depths of the crystal ball in a murky haze of colour.

“Fine,” Soonyoung lies, trying to keep his tone level and breezy. “Got my new crown, too.”

“Oh, let’s see it then,” Wonwoo prompts, and Soonyoung clears his throat before he puts the crown on his head with a flourish.

“Say hello to your future king,” he declares, grinning widely as he says the words. They flow off his tongue like water off a ducks’ back, easy and like it was always meant to be. His smile widens farther at this realisation, and the skin over his cheeks begins to hurt from being pulled so tautly. _See_?, he thinks victoriously, spurred on by the notion of defying the universe. _I’m going to be king, whether you like it or not._

“Looks great,” Wonwoo agrees, nodding approvingly at the fine circles of black onyx that now decorate Soonyoung’s crown. It isn’t grandiose by any means, but it radiates a power commanding enough to quell its viewer into submission.

“Doesn’t it? And-” Soonyoung pauses, then begins to unbutton his shirt.

“What are you doing?” Wonwoo asks, but his voice has risen so high it’s very nearly a screech.

“I wanted to show you the new necklaces they had made specially for me,” Soonyoung explains, now looking put-out and slightly miffed.

“Well, why didn’t you just show me over your shirt? They’re not shackled to the middle of your chest, are they?” Wonwoo retorts, massaging his temples with his hands. “Seriously, you’ll be the death of me at this rate,” he mutters, just audible enough for Soonyoung to hear.

“Can’t die if you’re already dead, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung reminds him, and Wonwoo gives him a look so terribly far away from a death glare that Soonyoung very nearly bursts out laughing.

“You’ll kill me twice then,” Wonwoo settles, narrowing his eyes. “Wouldn’t put it past you, anyway.”

“Well, thank you,” Soonyoung gushes, curtsying playfully. “Speaking of which,” he suddenly remembers, “I think I very nearly killed Joshua just now.”

“What in the world could you have done to top the dreams I sent them?” Wonwoo groans. “Please don’t tell me we have to do damage control now.”

“No, no. I just startled him a little because I misheard something he said, and then I got super riled up about it for a minute,” Soonyoung explains, laughing a little as he does. Wonwoo remains unamused.

“What did you think he said?”

“Ah, you know--,” Soonyoung tries to come up with something, but draws a blank.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

Soonyoung clicks his tongue, then grabs a pillow from his bed so he can keep talking to Wonwoo even as he rests. “I thought he told me I’d never be king,” he finally tells Wonwoo, squeezing his eyes shut as he waits for his world to come crashing down.

“Oh,” Wonwoo says sympathetically.

“Thanks,” Soonyoung replies sarcastically, drawing his wrist up over his eyes. “He probably thinks I’m insane now. I told him it was due to a lack of sleep.”

“Well, if anything, he can’t call you insane when he’s the one who had all those overtly apocalyptic dreams,” Wonwoo offers, clearly trying to be helpful. Soonyoung can’t say he doesn’t appreciate the effort. “And you really should get some rest.”

“Thanks,” he repeats, sincerely this time. They sit in comfortable silence for a minute or two, the kind of which swaddles him into its arms and cradles his heavy, heavy head.

***

Soonyoung waits until the sun has extinguished itself, the outstretched fingers of daylight falling farther and farther from the moon with each passing day. He was right, then; autumn was just around the corner.

He’d let the afternoon pass in a blur, despite his better judgment. The exhaustion from the emotional toil of the previous night having culminated in his earlier hallucinations was enough to scare him into getting a few hours of much-needed sleep. He’d dozed off easily with the crystal ball still on his bedside, mid-conversation with Wonwoo. They hadn’t been talking about anything of consequence, really, and the words leaving his lips had quickly grown slurred, falling from his tongue with the viscosity of honey. The last thing he remembers hearing is a deep, rumbling laugh, the likes of which he’d never heard before, but wouldn’t mind hearing for the rest of his life.

He wakes much later in the evening, after the moon and stars have all taken center stage in the night sky. Tonight, it curves into a crescent, leaving a scythe-shaped rip in the otherwise perfectly dark sky.

He blinks open his eyes blearily, rubbing at them with a free hand. Then, he jerks, and looks down in his hand for a split second in complete horror before letting out a dramatic groan.

“What? What’s wrong?” Wonwoo re-emerges from the crystal, peering over at Soonyoung’s fetal position.

“I forgot I was wearing mascara and I rubbed my eyes,” he tells Wonwoo sullenly, not daring to let his head peek over the covers lest the other man catch sight of his now-puffy eyes and smudged makeup. “Now I have to redo everything.”

Wonwoo clicks his tongue in what Soonyoung hopes is a mix of amusement and annoyance. He doesn’t know when or why he started wanting to be on Wonwoo’s good side, considering they met only 24 hours ago, but there’s something about the other man’s easy replies to his dramatics and ever-tolerant nature that makes him want to be...impressive. This is the first time he’s ever had to try.

“Why even bother? We’re going to be in a graveyard, who’s going to be seeing you?” Wonwoo questions, raising an eyebrow. Still unimpressed, then.

“I don’t know, but if the other ghosts are going to be as judgy as you I think I’d have to look my best, don’t you?” Soonyoung sprawls over his bed, reaching for the bottle of dewdrops to gently wipe away the dark stains on his face. “And plus, you’ll be there. I have to make a good impression.”

“We’ve already met, so I think the time for that’s well past us,” Wonwoo replies, now evidently bewildered. And then: “Oi, I’m not judgy!”

“It’s not the same! You wouldn’t come back wearing just your old, dirty burial shroud would you?”

“Well, I have no idea. I might,” Wonwoo answers, but it sounds like he’s only just beginning to think about it.

“What, really?” Soonyoung’s mouth falls open. “Don’t they give you like..a new set of clothes in the Eternal Realm?”

“No,” Wonwoo peers at Soonyoung, and his heart leaps when he realises that the other man is trying very, very hard to force the corners of his mouth down. “The underworld isn’t exactly at the height of fashion, believe it or not.”

“Should I bring you a robe, then?” Soonyoung ponders, pushing himself off the bed and striding to his wardrobe before Wonwoo has the chance to answer. “How tall are you? Do you think you could fit into this?” he holds up a long, flowing robe - one of his best, but he doesn’t tell Wonwoo that. It’s fashioned out of a deep velvet the colour of drowned sapphires, and it glistens temptingly in the cold moonlight.

“Not much taller than you, I’d expect,” Wonwoo estimates, tilting his head to the side as he examines the robe. “And I think that’ll do just fine. Thank you,” he adds earnestly, but there’s a slight hitch to his tone that Soonyoung can’t place. He’s barely even looking at Soonyoung now, his eyes still raking a slow path over the robe itself. Something about this displeases Soonyoung, the way Wonwoo looks very much like he’s experiencing his own personal haunting. That wasn’t right, obviously. What could a wraith like him possibly be haunted by?

He doesn’t want to dwell on it too much; not now. Instead, Soonyoung ducks out of sight for a second, then emerges with a small, black bag. “Do you want to see me do my makeup?”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, but it’s enough satisfaction for Soonyoung to have gotten that horrible, twisted expression off his face, and the light in his eyes that says he’s thinking of someone else in a time Soonyoung can’t reach. He isn’t sure he wants to at all, really. Between Wonwoo’s easy quips and the parts of him that seem less than human, it’s hard to understand that he was once someone with a past. He’d had people he loved; people he hated; and people he served because that’s what he was meant to do. It’s just inconceivable to Soonyoung’s selfish human mind that there had been others before him. Seungcheol, namely.

“Do you always wear makeup?” Wonwoo asks, squinting with curiosity as Soonyoung uses a delicate, pointed brush to gently smudge some dark powder into the corners of his eyes.

“Only when I have to look impressive,” Soonyoung replies, then blinks at Wonwoo. “How does it look?”

“..Interesting?” Wonwoo offers, tilting his head like he’s really trying to get a good look at what Soonyoung’s doing. It’s almost endearing, but Soonyoung catches himself before he lets the thought fully form. “I don’t really know how to describe makeup. Seungcheol never wore any, so…” he trails off, looking much more unsure of himself. The same darkness from before has eclipsed his features, and his eyes dart conspicuously away from Soonyoung’s face, like he can no longer bear to look at him.

The repeated mention of Seungcheol has made something sick and ugly settle in Soonyoung’s stomach, despite his earlier admiration for the man. Wonwoo belonged to him now, didn’t he? He was the king Wonwoo was meant to serve now; how would he ever be able to trust and depend on his advice if his loyalties were elsewhere? The idea of Wonwoo with a hidden face grinning maliciously in the shadows springs to mind, and a shiver runs its icy fingers down his spine at the thought of this hidden resentment possibly festering where he thought nothing could grow.

“What’s the deal with you two, anyway?” Soonyoung asks, using all of his strength to keep his tone light and appear distracted as goes on to spread a shimmering powder of deep blue over his eyelids.

“There’s no deal between him and I,” Wonwoo answers immediately, but it comes out so stiff that Soonyoung can instantly dismiss it as a lie. He clicks his tongue to convey as much, and Wonwoo looks up, scandalised. “There isn’t,” he insists, crossing his arms.

“Well I know there _isn’t_ , clearly,” Soonyoung gestures to himself, rolling his eyes. “But what about when you both were..alive?” he trips on the last word. It’s easy to forget Wonwoo isn’t actually here, easy to forget that he’s meant to be a puppet soul propped up on magic that doesn’t belong to him, and easiest of all to forget that he might resent having to serve a king that doesn’t belong to him either. The reminder causes a strange strain to make itself known in the cavity of Soonyoung’s chest, the kind of pain he only felt in the days after the death of a beloved father who, for all he knows, spent his days stewing over a hidden resentment towards him. He has to know now, is what he’s saying.

“What do you mean,” Wonwoo asks flatly.

“Are you going to pretend that you two weren’t the most dynamic duo this kingdom has ever seen?” Soonyoung blurts, unable to stand it any longer. “You helped him do some great things - terrible things, of course - but great, nonetheless.”

Wonwoo’s eyes have gone hard, and his outline in the crystal ball has become sharper, more angular and angry than before. “I never wanted to do those things,” he finally admits, closing his eyes as if the idea of continually looking out at Soonyoung and the world beyond him was too much to bear. “He was always faster than me, so eager to leave his mark on the world; even if that meant going down in flames.”

“But you helped him anyway,” Soonyoung wonders out loud, trying to reconcile the image of this Wonwoo ( _his_ Wonwoo now, some selfish part of his brain whispers) with the man in the portrait, the man who’d been all fiery determination and cunning eyes.

“He was my king,” Wonwoo sighs, and the defeated slump of his shoulders raises a flood of alarm bells in Soonyoung’s mind. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Is that why things ended the way they did?” Soonyoung asks quietly. He can’t resist; the question’s been on his mind since Wonwoo first arrived, and far before that, the very first time he traced the lifelines of Wonwoo’s story across the pages of a textbook. They’d ended so quickly, the streams of his achievements and natural aptitude for problem-solving so abruptly cut off and blocked by the choking pressure of a life ended deliberately.

“Yes,” Wonwoo answers, so quiet that Soonyoung can barely hear it. “It was an agreement at the time. That we’d go together, I mean. And I couldn’t imagine going on, just serving someone else like he’d meant nothing to me.”

Soonyoung’s mind is racing, only a hair’s breadth from crashing and careening into something he both wants to know and would also rather never have heard.

“You have to understand,” Wonwoo begins again, and he’s still so carefully not looking at Soonyoung. The shame in his voice stings. “There was no one like him. Even when he got sick and the madness overwhelmed him...none of his potential successors could’ve ever done the things he did. How could I have chosen to leave him behind?” 

“So you thought the solution was to cut your own life short?” Soonyoung demands, his voice coming out sharp and hurt despite his best efforts to keep his tone soft, almost vulnerable.

“It just seemed like the thing to do,” Wonwoo replies, easily now, and with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders which only serves to break Soonyoung’s heart instead of fuel his anger. “Isn’t that something you’d understand?”

“No,” Soonyoung says before he can stop himself. “I’m not actively seeking my death.”

“That’s funny. I seem to distinctly recall someone who looks uncannily like you suggesting - begging, even - that he die as soon as his task is completed,” Wonwoo retorts, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s not the same thing,” Soonyoung protests, and the clear disbelief on Wonwoo’s face only ignites the building sorrow in his own heart; the same sorrow that’s been accumulating since the very beginning of his sad story, and had only sprung tighter, more suffocating knots around his heart with every reminder of his inevitable fate. “Do you think I _actually_ want to die? Of course I’m not ready to go - I haven’t done anything of worth with my life, for one. I grew up here, but I’ve never seen anything of the world that lies beyond Seulgi’s cottage. I’ve never had a friend I would lay down my life for; I’ve never even fallen in love. I can’t help but feel like I’ve lived half-alive this whole time, because I have nothing to show for it. And even if after - after you, after I take my place as king - there’s an enormous chance I’ll still never get to do any of those other things because I’ll be fucking dead.”

Wonwoo’s watching him quietly, showing no sign of needing to interrupt to defend his own position. It’s a grace that Soonyoung doesn’t appreciate enough in the moment, this - this moment of connection that he’s dreamt about for years - finally letting him set free all of those drowned ghosts that had spent the past weeks, months, years of his life forced to open-mouthed, silent screams within the empty hallways of his heart.

“And it just fucking sucks, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung finishes, and now it’s his turn to avoid eye contact. He runs his hand over a piece of onyx, leaving an oily smudge that makes him wince. “It sucks knowing that I have to go through all of this knowing that I have to die - but then a part of me thinks that if I’ve spent this much of my life being this much of a waste, surely the next few years wouldn’t matter. It’s been this way for so long anyway, I can’t help but feel like I’ve missed my chance to be something already, ” he admits miserably. “Even my father - even my father might be remembered, albeit for his grief and misery. Even Seungcheol was remembered for his tyranny; you, for your mind. What have I got to show, for all my years?” he laughs mirthlessly, picking up his brush again. “Nothing, that’s what. Absolutely jackshit, fucking nothing.”

There’s a tense silence that follows the onslaught of emotions, but even he’s too tired of all of it to feel ashamed for unravelling.

“Well,” Wonwoo finally starts, his voice low and gentle. “I suppose you’re not anything yet. But we’ll make you into something.” Soonyoung snaps his head up, then almost recoils from the sudden intensity that’s found its way into the murky depths of Wonwoo’s eyes. “I promised I’d help you. You’re already giving me a second chance; the least I can do is make sure that you can take your leave with minimal regret.”

Soonyoung nods numbly, but he can barely process anything Wonwoo’s said. “I just don’t want to grieve for myself, too,” Soonyoung manages weakly. Wonwoo’s looking at him with this strange, imperceptible expression on his face again, and now he can’t stand the scrutiny. Immediately, he dabs the last bit of powder onto his eyelid, refusing to meet the other man’s eyes.

“You don’t have to,” Wonwoo counters. “I’ll do it. Let me shoulder the sorrow of remembering who you were and all the things you could’ve been. I’ll even save it for the aftermath; you and Seungcheol both.” He smiles, but it comes out small and too thin to be real.

“You’ll remember me?” Soonyoung asks, although the pathetic awe in his voice makes him want to never utter another word on the subject again.

“Of course I will,” Wonwoo answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “How could I ever forget?”

“Thank you,” Soonyoung says, and it’s enough. For now.

Soonyoung hadn’t been expecting to find himself back in the graveyard so soon. He ducks under the shade of a frangipani tree, trying to avoid stepping on its white blooms that have met the unfortunate fate of being crushed under the feet of an endless stream of mourners. The trampled flowers stand out like burnt-out stars against the mud and earth of the ground below his feet, and for a second he loses himself in the terrible beauty of it all.

H’s snapped out of his trance only by the sound of light footsteps he’d know anywhere; Seulgi arrives a few seconds later, slightly out of breath but without a hair out of place. She’s changed out of her usual get-up of a printed dress and heeled boots - tonight, she wears a long, black dress made of dark silk under a billowing robe, and her feet are carried by a pair of gladiator sandals. Under the pale moonlight, she looks to be glowing with the same inexplicable energy as the many crystals she keeps.

“Ready?” she asks Soonyoung, casting a pointed glance towards the black bag he clutches in his hand.

“All set.”

“You brought your coin along, right?” Seulgi makes a point of checking as they step into the graveyard proper, the headstones arranged haphazardly like the crooked teeth of some unknowable, underground beast.

“Yeah, Wonwoo reminded me to nick it on the way out,” Soonyoung confirms, but his face falls when Seulgi snorts in disbelief. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says, then lets out another huff. “It’s just - of course he was the one to remind you.”

“Well,” Soonyoung starts, feeling strangely defensive. “He was just being helpful. And we did have a deal, obviously he’d want to make sure I keep to the terms.”

“Why are you defending him?” Seulgi lowers her voice, looking cautiously at the bag in which the crystal ball sits, along with the extra robe Soonyoung had packed. “He’s going to be the one to kill you, and you’re okay with that?”

“I can’t have this conversation again,” Soonyoung sighs, growing more exasperated with each step.

“Again?” Seulgi repeats, just as Soonyoung asks rather loudly, “Wonwoo, which way were you buried?”

“Mmff,” says Wonwoo faintly.

“Sorry!” Soonyoung yelps, undoing the folded robe which had conveniently cushioned the crystal. “Say that again?”

“Keep going north,” Wonwoo says, his voice sounding much more clarion without the suffocation of the extra fabric.

“Just say straight,” Seulgi mutters under her breath, and Soonyoung lets out another long-suffering sigh.

“Look, I know this is hard for you. Believe it or not, it’s hard for me too. But you can’t keep hating him for doing what he has to,” Soonyoung finally confides in Seulgi under his breath, his eyes shifting periodically to the bag to make sure they’re not overheard.

“What, am I supposed to congratulate him on being the one chosen to kill my best friend?” she snorts, and Soonyoung can feel the heat beginning to radiate from her palms as she begins to lengthen her strides.

“You can’t keep thinking of him that way,” Soonyoung tells her seriously, struggling to keep up with her.

“And why not?” she hisses under her breath, now completely avoiding looking at Soonyoung at all.

“We should be coming up on it anytime now. To your right,” Wonwoo adds, seemingly unperturbed by their argument.

“Because when I do have to go, he’s going to be the last part of me left. If you reject him now, you’ll never be able to find me again,” Soonyoung retorts.

Seulgi’s silent for a moment as they turn right onto a particularly neat row of tombstones. And then, mercifully, she says: “Okay.”

“It’s here,” Wonwoo breathes suddenly, and so softly that had there not been dead silence around them, they would’ve missed it. “We’re so close, I can feel it.”

Soonyoung starts down the row in question, Seulgi following close behind him as they squint at the faded, weather-worn writing in the moonlight. Beneath their feet, the dead continue to sleep, undisturbed.

All except one, of course.

At the end of the row sits a headstone, darker than all the others around it. When he draws closer and reaches out his hand to caress it curiously, Soonyoung ends up recoiling with a gasp. It’s cold, much colder than regular old stone should ever be.

“You found it!” Wonwoo rejoices, and Seulgi hoists the crystal ball out of the bag as Soonyoung kneels before the headstone.

The inscription across it is flowery and delicate, but still readable.

Jeon Wonwoo

July 17, 1651 - September 15, 1675

‘ _Tis but a flying minute, That I must stay,_

_Or linger in it: And then I must away._ ’

“Did you pick that?” Soonyoung asks, and he can’t help but reach out and press his own fingers into where the words have been carved into the marble.

“Yes,” Wonwoo says, and Soonyoung has to suppress a shudder at the edge of pride in Wonwoo’s voice. “It was one of my favourite poems. His Poetry His Pillar, by Robert Herrick.”

“Didn’t it make you sad to pick it?” Seulgi interjects, shuffling over to kneel beside Soonyoung.

“A little,” Wonwoo answers, but this time he has the nerve to look slightly uncomfortable. “I only did it because it would’ve bugged me to the Plains and back if I’d let someone else choose the words by which I’d be identified for the rest of Time.”

“Isn’t that a little arrogant?” Seulgi questions, raising an eyebrow - had this not been a serious conversation, Soonyoung would’ve laughed at exactly how similar the two of them could be.

“I saw it more as having all my affairs in order, so whoever found me wouldn’t have to waste their time organising a grand old funeral for little old me,” Wonwoo shrugs, and the nonchalance of his morbid confession is enough to shoot down any more questions Seulgi might have.

“I should do that,” Soonyoung muses, and Seulgi slaps him on the arm. “What? I’m serious! Unless you want to be poring over books of poetry to choose an epitaph for me,” he teases. She rolls her eyes, but the affection behind the gesture is enough for him to know that she’d do it for him in a heartbeat. He gives her a knowing smile, in lieu of words.

“Wonwoo,” Seulgi calls to him, clutching the crystal ball in her palms. “I think we’re actually going to have to dig up your body and get your coin. Is it..in your mouth?”

“Yes.”

“Great,” Seulgi winces, casting a withering look in Soonyoung’s direction. “That’s gross,” she mouths.

“So I guess I’ll just reach in and get it,” Soonyoung offers sarcastically, but his jaws fall open a second later when Seulgi just looks at him expectantly. “You’re supposed to protest!”

“I love you, but I’m not putting my hand down the throat of a century-old corpse,” Seulgi protests, already taking a step backwards.

“Hey,” Wonwoo says, sounding rather miffed.

“Sorry, Wonwoo, but you know it’s true.”

“Guess it’s me, then,” Soonyoung mutters to himself, trying to get into a position comfortable enough to start digging. “Seulgi, my dear,” he calls with exaggerated politeness. “Could you at least hand me the shovel?”

“What shovel?” Seulgi responds, bewildered.

“Right, that was my job,” Soonyoung lets out a string of profanity under his breath, then sheds his robe so he’s left standing under the glow of the moonlight in only his lace-trimmed undershirt and trousers of deep blue silk. “Hands it is, then.”

So he digs.

And digs.

And digs so much that he has to physically look away as he does, unable to stand the sight and feel of the pieces of the earth settling into the pores of his skin. Under the cover of nighttime, the soil has been dyed a cavernous black, and every scoop of earth he heaves out seems to widen the maw of the beast slumbering beneath him. And then, he sees the body.

Not all at once. It presents itself in fractals. A flash of decaying white, first. He panics and blanches, thinking he’s hit _bone_ , and gods, how’s Wonwoo going to _react_ \--? Thankfully, once he steels himself enough to peer long enough at it, it turns out to be a piece of the burial shroud. Swallowing his nausea, he continues. The next colour he sees is red. It’s a dirty red, the kind that springs out from broken arteries and takes it place upon the sacrificial pyres that reach incessantly towards the sky despite their marked unholiness. This time, it’s the body.

Wonwoo had clearly been buried in some kind of red garment, and it glares up at Soonyoung confrontationally from beneath the layer of the shroud. He doesn’t remember much about what happens next, what lay beneath the hideous red because in the sickly glow of the night overhead he could see only the pale shroud that had cocooned his father. The bile had begun to rise in his throat, and he’d bent double, holding onto the headstone in front of him for support. The words had swam, unintelligible and mocking as he’d tried desperately to steady himself, to no avail. He assumes his mind decided to finally award him enough mercy to remove him from the situation; that, or Seulgi had had enough of watching himself dash himself to pieces on the sharp rocks of his own grief and pulled him away.

He falls backwards onto the cool earth, and she kneels in his place instead. The crystal ball has found its way into his lap, and Wonwoo’s pale, tired, face looks up at him with blatant worry scrawled across it.

“Soonyoung,” he says, “don’t look.”

“What? I have to, how could I not-”

There’s a sudden, blinding ray of green light that beams out of the grave, and Seulgi turns to them, holding the dust-ridden coin up victoriously. She scrambles to them, almost falling backwards into the open hole that they’ve torn into the earth, but Soonyoung reaches out just in time to pull her in, tugging her close to his chest and holding fast. In his lap, the crystal has begun to shake, and a crack works its way down the previously unscarred surface of it. It’s with a sudden stab of terror that Soonyoung realizes Wonwoo isn’t in the crystal anymore.

“Fuck, Seulgi, he’s not here- _look_ -” he tries to insist, but Seulgi only shushes him, clinging on to his forearm in a vice-like grip. The light has taken on a familiar but nonetheless painful intensity, shooting its beam up to the cover of the night sky and seeming to bore a hole into it. As his eyes trace the path of it with poorly-masked terror on his face, he can’t help but wonder if all of this would eventually be worth it. If all the pain, the grief, the thieving and conniving, could ever justify this complete breakage of the rational universe as he knew it.

The panicked refrain of his thoughts comes to a screeching halt as soon as his eyes fall back on the open grave, drawn by the motion stirring in its dark depths. He wouldn’t necessarily call it a mercy, not when he’s now being forced to witness something - no, someone - crawling out of the ground with unnatural strength and fluid determination. At first, there’s only pale, clawed hand, whose fingertips seem to disappear into the dirt entirely, indistinguishable from the realm from whence it came. And then a wrist, arms, shoulders and a head - all of a sudden it’s happening too quickly, he needs time to suck in a lungful of air and so he does, but it only makes him choke and sputter - and then those same arms are around him, patting him soothingly on the back.

“Soonyoung,” Seulgi whispers, her eyes growing wide, and she exchanges glances the person behind him, her face a mix of annoyance and concern. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Soonyoung rasps, still hoarse from his coughing fit. “Shocked me, that’s all.”

“He’s not going to die from just choking on air,” a new voice retorts, so close to his ear that Soonyoung himself nearly falls into the grave in his panic. “Sorry,” Wonwoo apologizes, quickly withdrawing his arms from around Soonyoung. “I was just trying to help.”

“Should’ve thought about that before you made your stupid dramatic entrance,” Seulgi grumbles, but there’s a hint of amusement that lines her voice, which Soonyoung gleefully notes wasn’t there in all the previous times she took it upon herself to berate Wonwoo.

And then he remembers; _Wonwoo_. Soonyoung turns to face the both of them, digging his hands into the ground to steady himself as he surveys his companions. There was Seulgi, all her appendages still in place; slightly sweaty; the only thing abnormal would be the obvious concern on her face, but that was his own fault, so he excuses it. And kneeling next to Seulgi, arms still somewhat outstretched in waiting and layered in oddly sheer black ribbons that curl tautly around the skin, is Jeon Wonwoo.

“Oh,” Soonyoung breathes, feeling a lot like the air has just been snatched from his lungs again as he rakes his eyes up and down Wonwoo’s very much corporeal form. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Wonwoo confirms, looking panickedly between Soonyoung and Seulgi with some unexpected worry in his pitch-black eyes. Unlike the form he’d assumed in the crystal ball, where he’d so clearly and comfortingly resembled the man he’d been in life, this version of him was much closer to the label of revenant. The skin around his eyes is pulled taut, and his once-friendly irises had been instead totally eclipsed by a swirling black mass that showed no signs of giving way any time soon. Despite the obvious cloak of darkness that seems to have molded itself to Wonwoo’s form, there’s very little about him that suggests malice. In fact, his perplexed expression and his obvious, flustered worry only causes a whirlwind of confused exclamations deep within Soonyoung’s heart. He’s still trying to decide how he feels about all this.

In the meantime, Soonyoung’s blank stare raking its way up and down Wonwoo’s body is clearly causing him some level of distress that he can’t logically analyse at the moment. Seulgi lets out an involuntary bubble of laughter, then rolls her eyes.

“Give him a minute,” she advises Wonwoo, keeping an eye on Soonyoung’s shell-shocked expression with a knowing smile. Wonwoo starts to back away, but Soonyoung makes this mortifying little noise in his throat that stops him in his tracks.

“Why,” he starts, then thinks better of it. Forcing what he hopes is a polite smile onto his face, he asks, “Aren’t you cold?” This, for some reason, only amuses Seulgi more.

“No,” Wonwoo replies, clearly perplexed again as he looks to Seulgi for guidance. She tilts her head, but says nothing; only presses her lips into a smile to hold back what must be another giggle.

“Put this on anyway,” Soonyoung instructs, hurriedly chucking the blue robe they’d picked out earlier at Wonwoo. “I’ve already had to bring it all the way here, and you might get cold later.”

“I’m really not,” Wonwoo protests, but he catches the robes in his hands anyway. Soonyoung watches his black-tipped fingers press around the fabric, holding it close to him in what he hopes is a sort of silent thanks. Mercifully, it bunches up over his chest and hides it from Soonyoung’s view, since those godforsaken layers of sheer black fabric don’t seem to be doing a very good job of being a piece of clothing. The blouse he dons is only slightly darker over the rise of his shoulders and around his neck, hiding his collar bones and clavicles from Soonyoung’s prying eyes. The rest of it is entirely see-through and almost daring him to look, to run his eyes over the hard lines of Wonwoo’s torso and the lean, reliable expanse of his arms.

Under Soonyoung’s gaze, he pulls on the robes anyway despite his previous vehement protests. Under the light of the moon and in such a regal piece of clothing, Wonwoo looks like _he_ could be the king. The headpiece nestled into his unruly hair does little to distract Soonyoung’s train of thought from the possibility; if anything, he’s only spurred on further. It looks to be made of burnished gold, delicate and dark in its craft as it ducks and reaches around itself in waves, looking impossibly dainty against the mass of Wonwoo’s dark, curly locks. Instead of being fitted with precious stones or jewels like the overly-decadent crowns of so many arrogant kings, Wonwoo’s headpiece is simply topped with vicious spires that curl and claw towards the night sky. 

And he’s beautiful, because of course the one thing Soonyoung knows he can never have is the most beautiful of them all.

“Where’s my coin?” Wonwoo inquires out of the blue, whirling around to face Seulgi. “It needs to be exchanged with his now.”

There’s a beat of tense silence, and then Seulgi presses the dirty coin into Wonwoo’s waiting palm. Soonyoung lets out a quiet sigh of relief from where he stands between them, grateful that Seulgi had kept her word to not make this any more difficult than it already was. She exchanges a glance with him as she catches the sharp breath expel itself from his lungs, and he gives her a small, grateful smile. She doesn’t return it.

“Now, yours,” Wonwoo instructs, turning to face Soonyoung.

Soonyoung steps forward now, drawing his own coin and its dark chain; his guaranteed pass into the afterlife, the rest of eternity hanging on a string; out of his robes. Wonwoo bows his head slightly - he’s right, he isn’t much taller than Soonyoung - and all he can see is the tender crown of the other man’s head. He has to hold back the urge to drop everything, let the chain slip through his fingers and into the unforgiving earth, just so he could run his fingers through the expanse of his hair. Instead, he swallows roughly and drops the chain around Wonwoo’s neck. It swings indifferently for a second, silver fragments of it only just visible in the dim light.

And then, it glows. Green light fills the coin and it’s inscribed surface, casting its glow throughout Wonwoo’s torso. Momentarily, his eyes spark emerald, and Soonyoung instinctively grabs Seulgi, his heart pounding as he braces himself for another unwelcome visitor from the dead.

But nothing happens. The light ceases, and Wonwoo stands before them; exhausted, dishevelled, but very much corporeal.

“Is it okay if we go home?” he requests warily.

***

“You’ll come with me today, won’t you?” Soonyoung murmurs to Wonwoo, just as they arrive back at the castle alone. They’d bid goodbye to Seulgi as they’d passed her cottage on the edge of town, after she’d politely declined Soonyoung’s offer to let her stay with them for the remaining time he had. Instead, she’d promised to come to his coronation later that morning. He doesn’t want to dwell on her deliberate distance; he can’t, not right now. The sour sting of it will have to remain locked up in a jar beneath his bed until he has the luxury of examining it closely, at a much later date.

“You want me to?” Wonwoo stops short, clearly taken aback. “Even when I look...like this?” he gestures vaguely to his entire form, and Soonyoung has to stop his mouth from falling open.

“Obviously,” he sniffs, not meeting Wonwoo’s eyes. “Why else would I have returned you to a corporeal body?”

“Someone’s in a bad mood,” Wonwoo remarks, but drops his teasing tone when Soonyoung doesn’t reply. “I meant that-”

“It’s fine, I know.”

“Everyone will see,” Wonwoo says again, his voice almost a whine.

Soonyoung raises an eyebrow. “They’re meant to. I wouldn’t want some poor bastard to be falling over himself and overdoing the flattery to try and get the position. May as well let them know that post has been filled.” When Wonwoo doesn’t reply, he tries again. “Are you scared?”

“Worried,” Wonwoo corrects, and Soonyoung rolls his eyes at the precision of his correction. “I’m just not sure how you’re going to explain the way you elected me.”

“I won’t have to,” Soonyoung answers breezily, delighting in the confusion that rips itself across Wonwoo’s face. He’s strangely far more expressive than Soonyoung had expected, a discovery that brought a secret pleasure to his heart. Not for any other reason, of course, beyond the fact that it would’ve been awfully boring to have gone through all that effort just to have to endure some stone-faced bastard who didn’t even have the decency to make life interesting.

“What’re you planning?” Wonwoo poses the questions suspiciously, his hands now folded behind his back as he leans forward to hear Soonyoung’s answer better. That’s another thing that had surprised him about Wonwoo; in the short time they’d spent briskly walking back to the castle before the accusing light of daytime could cast its spotlight on them, he’d learnt that Wonwoo seemed to be fairly tactile. That, or he just really enjoyed being in Soonyoung’s personal space.

Soonyoung scoffs now, slightly disappointed that Wonwoo hadn’t worked it out himself. “I pretty much grew up with Seulgi, and magic was the force by which you were brought to me. Do you think I’d really let it continue to be outlawed?”

“That seems like an overly-sentimental reason to reverse that law,” Wonwoo answers matter-of-factly, and Soonyoung has to hold back a disappointed groan.

“What else am I supposed to do? I can’t very well say you’re descended from -- well, you,” Soonyoung stumbles over his words for a second, and he casts a panicked glance in Wonwoo’s direction, but the other man doesn’t react. “And I’m not keeping that law in place.”

“I’m not saying you have to,” the rational answer delivers itself smoothly from Wonwoo lips, just as they pass the crumbling arches that mark the edge of the castle’s territory. “We just need to find a better reason. That’ll never get past your council, especially if they’re as terrible as you say.”

“Who says it needs to get past them?” Soonyoung muses, and a wide grin splits his lips into a splash of red across his face. Wonwoo’s eyes widen in horror, just as the morning bells sound overhead.

Soonyoung lets out a delighted burst of laughter; the hysteria of the night before merging with the joy of being caught. “Come on!” he crows to Wonwoo, breaking into a sprint with his advisor close on his heels. Against his chest, Wonwoo’s rotting coin thumps with the rhythm of his footsteps. The grime has begun to stain the white lace trim of the shirt’s plunging neckline, but he doesn’t notice.

“Soonyoung,” Wonwoo hisses as they fall into his chambers in a heap of robes and flailing limbs. Soonyoung makes a beeline to the sofa of black velvet in the corner of the room, immediately disrobing and draping himself across it to catch his breath. “What the Hell did you mean about not needing to get that law past them?”

“All in due time, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung hums, drumming his fingers against the sweaty surface of his blouse. “I’m going to have a bath.”

“Due time? I’m the one who’s supposed to know!” Wonwoo cries out, his cheeks flushed as he swoops towards Soonyoung. He glances down, watching the way the layers of sheer black cloth flutter around Wonwoo’s legs, providing him with teasing glimpses of his bare calves and feet.

“You need to get a pair of pants,” Soonyoung notes distractedly, then begins rifling through his closet.

“Oh, my god,” Wonwoo mutters, then reappears so suddenly in front of Soonyoung that he nearly sends the other man crashing to the floor in pure shock. “You can’t keep avoiding this.”

“I’m not avoiding it, there are just more pressing things to be done right now. I’m being crowned king of this land in 2 hours, and you’re not even dressed!”

“Am I--am I missing something here? I could’ve sworn you called me here to get advice, not to keep secrets and feed me the scraps,” Wonwoo snaps, his eyes hard and brimming with irritation. Soonyoung sucks in a deep, steadying breath as he looks into the depths of them, and inhales the unmistakably floral scent of frangipani. It’s dizzying and strangely comforting all at once, so different from the lingering trails of lavender that seem to still be floating around the corners of the castle’s hallowed halls. He very nearly leans into it, placing his heavy head onto Wonwoo’s shoulder to get closer to that sweet relief, then thinks better of it.

“I’ll tell you after that crown is officially placed onto my head - I promise. I just can’t fathom working through political strategy right now when there’s still a chance I might be…” he trails off, not wanting to say the words lest he jinx things.

“Ah,” Wonwoo makes a noise of understanding. “You’re still worried about your conspirators.” He steps away now, to Soonyoung’s relief. When Soonyoung nods, though, a strangely protective expression crosses Wonwoo’s face. “You can expel your doubts. You do have me now, which is definitely more than whatever pathetic support system you had before.”

Soonyoung rolls his eyes at this, but a traitorous bubble of pleasure has risen in his throat, and the giddying rush of power to his head makes him feel both invincible and intense. He hadn’t really been thinking of Wonwoo as his protector thus far; but he supposes that it might not be the worst thing for the sake of his royal career, even if it meant that Wonwoo was only protecting him to make sure he upheld his end of the bargain. Whatever came after was of no consequence to him.

“Whatever you say, big boy,” Soonyoung teases, and goes back to rifling through his clothes without a second thought. Wonwoo, on the other hand, begins to radiate a searing heat that very nearly burns him. “What the fuck?” Soonyoung turns, only to meet Wonwoo’s abashed expression.

“Sorry,” he apologises immediately, trying to fan himself with his hands as if it would do him any good. “I think that’s the undead version of blushing.”

“God,” Soonyoung mutters, then darts to his drawer to retrieve a fan. He tosses it to Wonwoo, who catches it with a mumbled thanks. “Pick out some clothes while I take my bath, will you? We definitely won’t have much time to put something together for you from scratch.”

Wonwoo nods obediently, still fanning himself furiously. And then, just before Soonyoung disappears behind the folding doors leading to his bathroom, Wonwoo calls out, “What colour are you wearing?”

“Black and gold,” Soonyoung replies, then arches an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Coordination purposes,” Wonwoo answers, and the simple thoughtfulness of it makes something in Soonyoung’s heart spill over and out of the cage he’d forced it into.

“Just pick something out,” he settles on exasperation as he disappears into the bathroom. It’s easier than any actual admittance.

When they arrive at the entrance to the prodigious hall downstairs, the first thing that greets them is the expression of pure, unadulterated shock on Seokmin’s face.

“M-my lord,” he stutters, tripping forward into a low bow. “Who might your...companion be?”

“This,” Soonyoung slides his arm around Wonwoo, who stiffens in a rather mortified manner at his touch, “is Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo dips his head, the delicate hanging bits of gold on his headpiece twinkling mischievously as he does. “Pleased to meet your acquaintance,” he greets Seokmin, and the other man’s mouth opens and closes uselessly as he takes Wonwoo in - all lace and leering eyes.

Soonyoung beams, clearly pleased at the total dumbfoundedness Wonwoo had managed to produce. “He’s to be my new advisor.”

“What?” Seokmin blurts, then covers his mouth with his hands a second later, seemingly horrified at his unintentional outburst. “My apologies, I just thought that you’d have to disclose your choice to us beforehand.”

“Aren’t I?” Soonyoung raises an eyebrow, before he gestures around them. “I haven’t been crowned yet, have I?” Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a cat-like grin spread itself across Wonwoo’s previously composed features.

“No, sire,” Seokmin answers obediently, quick to dip his head into a bow before he politely excuses himself. As he lowers his head, Soonyoung thinks he spots the tell-tale shimmer of tears welling in the other man’s eyes, and the hard stone of disappointment clutched in his fists. Somewhere in his own chest, his heart looks up apathetically, assessing the situation. Once, maybe before, it would’ve sunk without a second thought, crumbling with the weight of having been a disappointment to someone who relied on him. Now, though, it glances at Seokmin and remains uninterested. He has no time to be worrying about _feelings_ and maintaining allies bonded to him out of sentiment rather than strategy. He has a kingdom to run.

“Shall we?” Wonwoo turns to him, now bravely offering an arm out to lead Soonyoung into the room before them.

Soonyoung’s cheeks illuminate themselves with a dusting of pink, but he takes the revenant’s arm anyway. “We shall.”

_**II.**_ **_FALL_**

****

They stride into the hall, heavy with all of its black banners and drowned sunlight, arm-in-arm. Outside, the trees have set themselves aflame and are making no effort to douse the fire.

****

Gasps of horror are the first things that greet them as they float down the aisle, black robes fanning out behind them. Soonyoung’s robe sweeps the floor, the embroidered weight of it obvious to all who watch him as he goes. Wonwoo’s own robes - a mix of his underworldly garb with pants and shoes graciously lent to him by Soonyoung - float just slightly above the floor like an untethered shadow. Soonyoung’s conscious of the stares as they go; the open-mouth, slack-jawed terror of it all that hasn’t quite hit yet. He wonders if his father would’ve reacted the same way if he was here too, watching from the darkness of the rafters. He can’t help but tilt his head up slightly just to check that he isn’t actually there, harpy-like and predatory in the most disconcertingly passive of ways. The features of the man himself blur in his mind’s eye as he tries to glue together the image of the webbed harpy wings, their claws, with the face of his father. It’s only when he squints and his brain pulls a blank that he realises, with some dull horror, that he can barely remember what his father had looked like in life. The only image that remains of him is that of his spectral form moaning the hideousness of his son, and by that point it seems it might be easier to forget.

Thankfully, he’s far too occupied with other things to worry about the ethical nature of forgetting the deceased. They make it down the end of the aisle.

Soonyoung sinks into his throne as Wonwoo moves to stand behind him, his gnarled hands simmering protectively against his shoulders. Already, Soonyoung can feel the thrum of protective magic rolling off his hands in waves, the dark wisps unfurling and camouflaging easily against the gaping darkness of Soonyoung’s robe and high-collared shirt. The rest of the council has given them a wide berth, and Soonyoung sees Jeonghan’s eyes darting between them with the intensity of a bird of prey eyeing the latest piece of carrion to be torn to shreds. A phantom shiver runs down his spine, but it resembles the memory of fear far more than the potency of the feeling itself. There’s something hideous about that numbness, sharp and pointed at the edges; but again, Soonyoung greets the bared teeth of his memory with a polite smile that says, “I’m busy, don’t you see?”

“Well?” Soonyoung begins, his voice drawling and bored. “Let’s get on with it.” When no one moves, he springs forward in his seat, his eyes surveying the rows of horrified witnesses before them. He spots Seulgi in the crowd, the only one who isn’t watching him with an expression of pure disgust. She’s in black, the same as everyone else, but she wears a small, hopeful smile on her face that only spurs him on.

“You lot have always been so drab,” he mutters under his breath, then makes a beckoning gesture with his finger to call Wonwoo forward in a haze of dark mist. “This is my new advisor, Wonwoo. Count this as my official declaration that the position has been filled.”

The silence in the room drops several degrees at this order, and he can feel the sinking of stomachs and the acidic stench of fear rising in the air.

“ But, he’s..” Mingyu, one of the other council members starts, taking a step forward beyond the invisible boundary they’d enacted. In response, Soonyoung and Wonwoo turn to face him in unison, their dark eyes blazing.

“Yes?” Soonyoung prompts, blinking slowly at him. “He’s what, Council Member Kim?”

“He’s--he’s dead! Can’t you see that?” Mingyu blurts exasperatedly, and Soonyoung rolls his eyes and exchanges an irritated glance with Wonwoo.

“And?” he asks again. “You dare patronize me?” He lets his gaze bore into Mingyu’s terrified one for a second, hoping that it gets the point across. “Let it be known,” he continues, now turning to face the rest of his captive audience, “that anyone who poses such traitorous objection to my choice is welcome to take their leave now, or face the consequences.” He grins now, knowing that it doesn’t reach his eyes. Ferocity, at this stage, is better than vulnerability.

Not a soul moves. It’s like the whole room is holding their breaths collectively, still enough to trick cobwebs into forming.

“Marvellous,” Soonyoung sits back against the throne, crossing his legs before he snaps his fingers, startling the crown-carrier out of his trance. “Are you just going to stand there all day?”

“No, sire,” the boy replies, rushing forward so quickly that he nearly drops the crown. He rights the pillow it sits on just in time to stop it sliding off, heaving a sigh of relief before casting a meek, boyish smile at Soonyoung despite his obvious terror. Kneeling so that his mousy brown hair catches the light and becomes the only spot of vibrance in the otherwise dark hall, he offers the crown in the vague direction of the distanced council members. When none of them step forward, his face falls.

“Council Member Yoon, you’re supposed to..” he tries to hiss, but Jeonghan only raises a defiant eyebrow. The boy before him withers, then looks hesitantly at Soonyoung. The other man leans down in his chair, very nearly at eye-level with the boy.

“Why don’t you do it?” Soonyoung suggests, although the low purr of his voice leaves little room for a choice to be made. “What’s your name?”

“C-chan,” the boy stutters out, his eyes wide as he swallows roughly. “Lee Chan.”

“Very well, Lee Chan,” Soonyoung settles back in his chair, fixing Chan with a grin that sparkles with an inappropriate mischief. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

“Yes, sire,” the boy rushes out, setting the pillow on the floor and picking up the crown with surprisingly steady hands. His eyes have gained a determined glint, a wall built in a split-second; the kind of hurried construction Soonyoung is all too familiar with.

“With this crown in mine hands,” Chan begins, the words suspended in the air as he pauses for breath under the weight of their history. Somehow, still, not a soul dares to object to the slow destruction that they guarantee. “I grant you a steady head, and an unwavering heart / with which you may swallow courage / and spit up the seeds of that which no longer serves you.”

He lowers the gleaming crown onto the dark locks of Soonyoung’s hair, and it fits perfectly, like it was always meant to be. And perhaps, it was.

Chan all but scrambles away from them now, pale-faced and nauseated even as Soonyoung gives him a genuinely thankful smile and congratulates him on his stunning performance. He nods once in acknowledgement, for the words wouldn’t drag themselves beyond the gates of his trembling lips no matter how hard he tried to coax them through. Soonyoung and Wonwoo can both see his fear of course, the way he trembles like an autumn leaf in a thunderstorm; and yet they choose to say nothing, for the boy (despite his age, despite his class, despite his obvious fear) has awarded them a kindness without which the material of tragedies would’ve been further woven.

“Aren’t you all going to bow?” Soonyoung questions, now turning his gaze to the crowd. It appears that in his own moments of tense stillness, they’d been rallying the troops of their own hearts.

“We’ll never bow to you,” a familiar, defiant voice from behind him erupts, but the explosion itself is unintimidating; fraught with tremors and thoroughly lacking the burning heat of conviction.

“Joshua Hong,” Soonyoung muses, spinning in his chair so his legs dangle off the edge of the throne in a childlike, carefree manner. Wonwoo’s hands follow him as he goes, his touch burning oddly as it grazes the knuckles of Soonyoung’s hand. A black spot forms on his skin, then dissipates into the pores. “You never learn, do you?”

“I think I’ve learned a lot, actually,” Joshua rebutts, lifting his head with an air of confidence so self-assured that even Wonwoo can’t help but let out a snicker under his breath. “You’re clearly not fit to be king. You had to search all the way to the edge of the universe to find the one being who’d actually help you become king because you couldn’t do it on your own,” he carries on, eyeing Wonwoo with a glance of pure disgust as he does. Despite the harshness of the words and the truth that sits somewhere in their gnarled core, Soonyoung manages to convince the panicked hummingbird of his heartbeat to focus only on the insult that’d been hurled. Anger, stewed and bottled, would surely serve him more than a diluted scattering of sorrow.

“Watch your mouth,” Soonyoung warns him, but the venom in his voice is aching to find a bloodstream to sink its teeth into.

“Why should I?” Joshua retorts, now striding forward to them with practiced, infuriating grace. “You’re weak, and you always have been. You’re no king of mine.”

Just as his hand reaches out to topple the crown off of Soonyoung’s head, there’s suddenly Wonwoo, and only Wonwoo. The darkness of his magic is searing hot and vindictive in a way it hadn’t been before, spreading out before Soonyoung in an imperceptible wall which scalds Joshua’s treacherous hands. The man retreats with a gasp, holding his wounded arm limply in the cradle of his index finger and thumb; a useless pacifier compared to the doubtless ache which Soonyoung can only imagine permeates his bones.

“Monster,” Joshua breathes, his eyes widening. “You’re both monsters.” No one else steps forward. Even Jeonghan and Seungkwan appear paralysed, despite their earlier conviction. There’s no denial either, and Soonyoung meets Seulgi’s petrified gaze amidst the crowd. She purses her lips, looks away, and says nothing.

The grief of that alone is enough to topple the cities of Soonyoung’s heart. Their foundations rumble precariously under the extra weight of the unsightly sadness which crashes upon their polished facades, splashing blood and guts over the walls in a sticky decay of redistributed matter. Soonyoung blinks slowly as the lights of the towers that once burned inside him excuse and extinguish themselves.

“No,” Soonyoung decides, fixing Joshua with an uncomfortably level gaze. “We’re just willing to do the necessary thing. Monstrous, if you want to call it that, but necessary.” He pauses now, reaching a hand up to soften the sharp angle of Wonwoo’s defensive arm disrupting the air in front of him. Part of him wants to laugh, looking at its girth and the expectation of this man to physically protect him, but the power that continues to saturate itself in the unusually still air around him is enough of an indicator to dictate that he isn’t fucking around. Wonwoo relaxes slightly under his touch, letting the outstretched spear of his hand be replaced by a wispy blanket of shadows that begin to cocoon the throne.

“And the right thing?” Joshua asks, and the condescension in his tone is nearly enough to wound. “What about the right thing? Your father always held that in high regard - too high sometimes, but at least we knew he had a conscience about things. He’d be terribly disappointed if he were to see what you’ve done.”

“That’s the least of my concerns,” Soonyoung looks up, feigning boredom as he snaps his fingers to beckon the armed guards who’d been hovering in the shadows. They march forward, their shoes making a brittle tapping noise like nail against bone as they come. “He’s dead now anyway,” Soonyoung continues, apathetic as they secure Joshua in an inescapable vice between their uniforms, “so what does it matter what he could potentially see?”

“You’ll never get out of this alive,” Joshua promises, his breathing growing ragged as he wrestles uselessly against the guards.

“That’s a new one,” Soonyoung muses, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against his cheek even as the guards pull Joshua to his feet roughly. The council member can only scowl helplessly at him, still attempting his futile resistance. “Such a pity that delightfully creative head of yours will have to roll at dawn tomorrow. But, alas, these things must be done,” Soonyoung sighs now, continuing his mocking theatrics even as he feels Wonwoo’s breath hitch in warning. Joshua can only gape at him. “Away with you.” 

There’s the awful sound of reluctant feet scraping against the floor as Joshua’s limp, defeated body is dragged away. Silence reigns steadily once again, save for the thudding of Soonyoung’s own heartbeat in his ears.

“Now,” he interrupts the growing gloom with exaggerated cheer. “Anyone else?”

***

“What were you thinking?” Wonwoo demands, his voice emerging as a low hiss the minute they enter the buried privacy of Soonyoung’s chamber, which is now supervised by armed guards at all hours of the day. “You’ve been king for all of 10 minutes, and you’ve already sentenced someone to death. How is _that_ good rulership?”

“I never said anything about good rulership,” Soonyoung comments as he tugs the crown off his head with a single finger. “I just told you I wanted to do whatever I needed for the job to get done.”

“And that includes impulsive murder?” Wonwoo inquires, his expression stony and unyielding.

“He was threatening me,” Soonyoung shrugs now, sinking into the comfort of his new bedspread. Silk sheets to replace his old cotton ones; fit for a king, of course. The feel of it against it his skin brings to mind old warnings about decadence and corruption, spoken in the deceptively educational tone that coloured most of the most severe warnings passed down to him. He stretches out. 

“And I was protecting you,” Wonwoo rebutts, although it sounds surprisingly hurt. At this change in tone, Soonyoung jolts up, his interest piqued.

“Is that what’s offending you so?” Soonyoung wonders out loud, his eyes wide and inquisitive as he sits on the edge of his bed. Wonwoo’s lack of answer is all the confirmation he needs.

“Wonwoo, dear, really you have to understand that I only did what had to be done,” Soonyoung defends himself, but Wonwoo doesn’t budge. “I could see you protecting me - I felt it. I don’t have any doubts about whether or not _you_ can do your job. It’s the others I’m worried about.”

“I understand that, but your having to make an example of him only humiliated me. And yourself, if I’m being honest,” Wonwoo finally says, crossing his arms as he leans against the pillar in the far corner of Soonyoung’s room. The sudden distance he’s enacted between the both of them is just as dizzying as his tendency towards closeness, except this time it’s seasoned with the bitter taste of betrayal and blame. “If this is what you meant by not having to get past them...I don’t mean to be harsh, but to do it so soon makes it look like you don’t have a steady hand in control.”

“I don’t, that’s the problem,” Soonyoung snaps, now rubbing his temples and wishing Wonwoo would just come over here and be all warm again so Soonyoung can press his aching head to the crook of his neck and call it a day. “What d’you suggest I should’ve done?”

Instead of replying, Wonwoo just shakes his head and sighs. “No use thinking about that now. Let’s just plan forward.”

“No,” Soonyoung denies him, raising his head to meet his eyes. “You’re the only ally I actually have in this. Teach me how to be good to you.” In the air, the unspoken words: _I can’t lose you, too._

Wonwoo hesitates, then looks away for a moment when he realises how serious Soonyoung is. “You don’t have to say it like that,” he mumbles, fidgeting uncomfortably under the robe, which he begins to peel off rather unceremoniously. “Gods, why is it so hot in here?”

“It’s not,” Soonyoung replies, but the secret seed of delight has already begun to bloom in his heart. “I was serious.”

“I know,” Wonwoo groans, and he casts Soonyoung a rather out-of-character, withered look. “The only thing I can say is at least run things by me first. And, let me do my job. It’s no use declaring to the whole world that you’ve got--that you’ve got,” Wonwoo pauses, clearly uncomfortable. “A demon as your left-hand man, and then not even using him.”

Soonyoung is quiet for a minute. This is the first time Wonwoo’s referred to himself as a demon.

“Okay,” is what he eventually decides on saying. “I’m sorry if I made you feel..is insufficient the right word?”

“Close enough.”

“I really am sorry.”

“You don’t have to say it again,” Wonwoo protests, now reaching up to scratch the back of his neck in this awkward, embarrassed way which doesn’t match his appearance whatsoever. “I just want us to work well - together.”

“We will,” Soonyoung promises, an edge of eagerness and ambition resurfacing in his voice. “I’ve already thought up some things. Would you like to hear them?”

Wonwoo lets out a startling, gravelly laugh at this, then raises his hand in complete mortification to cover his mouth. “Sorry,” he immediately excuses himself. “You just said it so formally. I couldn’t help it.”

Soonyoung frowns exaggeratedly, and the expressiveness of it all turns his features downwards in a way that could almost be considered, had the circumstances hanging over them not been so severe. “I didn’t know what else to say,” he admits lamely, wringing his hands. “Being a king is hard.”

“I wasn’t saying it to embarrass you,” Wonwoo quickly tries to retract his earlier outburst, but it’s too late. The weight of the day has made Soonyoung sensitive and sore, overly-conscious of how no parts of his life will ever fit him quite as well as he’d like them to.

“It’s not you,” he promises instead, knowing Wonwoo needs the reassurance. “Just been a long day, you know?” Here, he presses his face into the palms of his own hands and breaths in. They smell like frangipani.

Here, Wonwoo softens. “Was it...was it Seulgi?”

“What?” Soonyoung’s head snaps up, horrified at the fact that even Wonwoo could see them splintering. He wonders what else he’s noticed by now, the kind of things he’d usually keep in the underbelly of his world but for some reason, rise to reveal themselves to the curiosity of Wonwoo’s gaze.

“I just saw the way you both were looking at each other, earlier,” he elaborates, now striding forwards to fold himself upon the floor at Soonyoung’s feet. He’s close enough now that if he leans forward, he could easily let his head lie in Soonyoung’s lap. Of course, he doesn’t. But he could. “Like you couldn’t recognise one another anymore.”

“That’s accurate enough,” Soonyoung laughs humorlessly, letting his eyes wander to the window beyond them. The leaves of the trees are overgrown, and the fruits that hang on them have surely lost all their sweetness. Autumn marches steadily forward with a vengeance, as summer retreats with its tail between its legs. “Maybe our time has come.”

“I’m sure she’d still be willing to be your friend, you just have to--” Wonwoo starts, but Soonyoung’s already shaking his head.

“You don’t have to lie to me, I know it’s useless trying to salvage it,” Soonyoung replies. “Ever since I went to her that day, we’ve been..different. Hesitant. I can feel her looking for traces of the person I used to be. It’s like she’s still searching, no matter how many times I tell her she’s never going to be able to find anything.” He clenches his fists. “Maybe she’s started to resent me for it. I’ve made her try so hard, after all… but I can’t go back to who I used to be,” he turns to Wonwoo, trying to swallow the tears that are fighting their way up. “I don’t know how to explain that to people. That I’ll never be the same. That I feel like I’m walking around with a huge, festering wound that just won’t heal no matter what I do with it - anger doesn’t heal it, but neither does my sadness. And it’s unsightly, I _know_ it is, but…” He trails off, unsure of what else he could say that hasn’t already been said. There are only so many ways to talk about grief, and he feels as though he’s spent all his words on them.

To his surprise, Wonwoo reaches a hand out in offering. His palm is marred by an enormous scar that slashes the otherwise perfect expanse of skin. Soonyoung doesn’t have to ask where it came from. He takes it, anyway.

“Tell me about your plans,” Wonwoo says.

The first leaf falls.

***

The first thing Soonyoung learns in his partnership with Wonwoo is that they work well together. Soonyoung possesses the wit and impulse to create startling figures out of his own imagination, and Wonwoo fashions them into recognisable-enough shapes which are then let loose upon the world.

The second thing Soonyoung learns is that Wonwoo possesses an impeccable talent for making him feel far less demented than he is. Every time an idea or a word comes out too sharp, cutting too close to the skin, Wonwoo’s there to reign him in and press a bandage over the bleeding mess he’s left behind so neither of them have to look at it too closely. He isn’t sure how productive this is, but the relief of not having to see is unparalleled. Sometimes he still wishes he could live with his eyes closed.

The third thing Soonyoung learns is that he’s fine with never seeing anything again, as long as he has Wonwoo by his side.

As promised, they do great things together. Terrible, in the sense of the word, but great nonetheless. A great many hours of delighted derangement pass as they sit in Soonyoung’s chambers with their knees pressed against one another, eager eyes poring over crumbling maps and curated reports which would spark new ideas. It’s mostly Soonyoung who spins around the room and spills ink everywhere, babbling excitedly about a new tax strategy or a particularly hard-lined proposal pertaining to the control of their borders. He doesn’t notice Wonwoo’s eyes watching the spilled ink seep into the soles of his feet. The darkness of his eyes isn’t quite enough to coat the melancholy, but Soonyoung’s too fast and already hacking furiously away at one of his musings to question it.

The first thing they do in those biting autumn months is expel every single council member from their positions, as well as the grounds of the castle. Soonyoung barely remembers the day it happened, save for the poorly-masked pity on Seokmin’s face as he’d watched his colleagues wheel their belongings off the grounds which had been their home ever since their fathers were the ones who walked the halls. (Of course, he’d spared Seokmin. Strategy doesn’t always triumph sentiment. Wonwoo had convinced him of that.)

Jeonghan was the only one who’d left with his head held high, red-rimmed eyes blazing as he’d spat at Soonyoung’s feet and walked briskly out the door without turning back. Soonyoung can’t say he’s thrilled to see him go; Jeonghan, after all, had been one of the few to light up a dull room in the old days. Had his light not gotten blindingly bright, he might’ve been able to stay. But after that, and after Joshua, Soonyoung knows what he’s doing to Jeonghan could count more as mercy rather than an act of malevolence. This is just as much a burial ground to him as it is to Soonyoung; and gods know, Soonyoung can barely stand to live out the days in it all alone. He can’t imagine what it’d be like for Jeonghan. Still, he can’t coax out the regret from his stale heart.

The other days blur together. Soonyoung and Wonwoo start going on walks as it gets colder, unable to tolerate the rumbling gloom that shrouds the halls of the castle. Even tolerating the disgusted stares of the town’s occupants is better than being forced to hole up in that glorified prison all day long. The diminishing sunlight is friendly to Wonwoo, and he can roam the streets with little burden from the weight of the royal robes that Soonyoung dons. Surprisingly, his attire does manage to change day-to-day. It always holds the same swirling dark magic at its core, and every last one of them ripples and flows across his skin; but they do change. The collared shirt from the first day he’d arrived had once morphed into an entirely sheer blouse, save for the embroidery of wildflowers that sprawled diagonally from hip to shoulder. Today, of all days, Wonwoo is at his barest. A billowing black top runs horizontally just below his collarbone, exposing the tops of his shoulders and the hollow of his throat. It’s entirely translucent, and Soonyoung doesn’t understand it at all. The only mercy the underworld has granted him today is that Wonwoo’s pants aren’t equally see-through.

“Why do you still keep those statues up?” Wonwoo enquires, effectively startling Soonyoung out of his furious spiral of thoughts pertaining to the physics of Wonwoo’s blouse. It’s easier to lose himself in the details than have to stomach the world that moves around him.

“Huh?” Soonyoung says intelligently.

Wonwoo smiles, and the understanding in it makes Soonyoung’s cheeks burn. There shouldn’t be anything to be understood.

“The statues of your father,” Wonwoo elaborates, gesturing at the imposing figure of the man in the middle of the square they’re standing in. Soonyoung had hardly noticed they’d arrived. “Was there a reason you kept them up?”

“Was I not supposed to?” Soonyoung asks, the discomfort of confusion bringing him back to reality. The white marble figure of his father looks down at him disapprovingly. He feels like throwing up.

“I can’t answer that,” Wonwoo replies, now gazing at Soonyoung with renewed interest. He was always interested, of course, always searching Soonyoung’s face for an answer he didn’t dare speak, but the sore subject of his father always made Wonwoo look harder. “I’m surprised you don’t have one of your own.”

“I hardly think I’m the poster boy for independent thought, Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo tuts disapprovingly now, eliciting a self-deprecating grin from Soonyoung. “Don’t worry, I know that’s not what you meant. I just didn’t know I had the option to take them down. It just felt...”

“A little too soon?” Wonwoo offers.

“Yes, too soon,” Soonyoung agrees. He turns to observe the statue again. It’s definitely not the most accurate portrayal of his father. The man in question stands immobilized, a book hanging limply from one hand as the other raises his sceptre of moonstone at the sky victoriously, the position of conquerors. Eyeing the awkward contrast in the strength of his hands and the conviction that doesn’t seem to have materialized anywhere else, Soonyoung has to ponder whether this sad likeness is more of an insult to his father’s memory than a vehicle of it. It hurts to look at, of course. Seeing the weaknesses of his father so clearly portrayed in the hanging hands dashes that impression of the invincibility of a father that all sons hold onto, even in the face of compelling evidence that proves otherwise. “Perhaps now is the right time.”

Wonwoo blinks, clearly taken aback. “You’d like your father’s statue removed now?”

“No time like the present, right?” Soonyoung jokes, nudging Wonwoo as he does. “Besides, I don’t know how much time I have left. Maybe it’s time I claim my spot up there.” He tilts his chin up to gesture at the mounted pillar upon which his father stands.

Above them, the overcast sky grumbles unhappily. Droplets of rain begin to fall with light, pattering steps. Wonwoo touches his arm, clearly ready to leave. Momentarily, he closes his eyes, breathes in deeply, and lets the drizzle coat his cheeks as he stands there; looking holy and hollow all at once.

His stupor breaks when thunder growls threateningly overhead, and a sword of lightning rips open the sky. Only then does he slide his hand into Wonwoo’s and take off, leaving his father to be soaked by the downpour.

When they arrive back through the doors of the castle soaked through, the first order Soonyoung gives to his bewildered staff is to make an order for a hulking block of black marble, and a sculptor. They dip into subservience immediately, no questions asked. Wonwoo lets out a little giggle at their eagerness, the way they buzz around the castle like worker bees at the slightest raise of Soonyoung’s voice.

“You’ve just got the whole world wrapped around your finger, don’t you,” Wonwoo observes, but there’s a murky quality to his voice that makes him sound almost whimsical, in a dream. It’s oddly soft for a demon, but Soonyoung doesn’t know what to make of it, so he chooses not to comment.

“As if,” he snorts as he drags his sopping robes up the steps. “Have you seen the way the townspeople look at me?”

“To be fair, I do think that that’s more of my doing,” Wonwoo counters, trying to inject some lightness into their conversation. It doesn’t work. Soonyoung remains stone-faced, and on the verge of the hysteria that can be brought about only by defeat. With a sigh, Wonwoo sobers. “I thought you said you didn’t care about being well-liked as a king? You just wanted to get the job done.”

“I know what I said,” he admits miserably, wrenching open the door to his room. “But obviously I want to be loved. Obviously I want praise. I want to be told I’m doing the right thing and going to the right places and meeting the right people and--and eating the right food, even! I’m a liar, Wonwoo!” He spins on his heel, turning to face Wonwoo with intense eyes. “That’s why -- that’s why all this had to happen. Why you had to be here; why it had to be now. No one else was going to tell me. Nobody else wanted to.”

Wonwoo remains quiet through this outburst, the same as he always has. Usually, Soonyoung would chalk it up to him being a good listener, but today, it feels like the world is sliding off his plate and maybe Wonwoo’s not even listening. Instead, Soonyoung ambles straight for his wardrobe and begins rifling through for something - anything - dry. The entire time, he can feel Wonwoo’s curious eyes on him.

“Is that so strange? Haven’t you ever felt like that?”he tries desperately one last time, standing to his full height with his clothes now in hand. The dress he holds is bunched up in his fists, odd and immature in the way that a child would hold something without concern for its value. He’s never treated his clothes that way before.

“When I was alive, I only wanted Seungcheol’s praise,” Wonwoo finally divulges, but there’s something unspoken that haunts the edges of his words.

“And now?”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter to me as much.”

Soonyoung nods; just once, brief and curt. Then, he disappears into the double doors of the bathroom without a backwards glance. He doesn’t see Wonwoo watching the doors the way a cat may sometimes haughtily, reluctantly await its owners return; he doesn’t catch the mumbled sonnets that tumble off his tongue, telling the story of a drowned king whose beauty alone could stop time and turn the world to do his bidding; and he certainly doesn’t spot the hungry want in the depths of his tar-black eyes. Instead, he slams the door.

When he returns, they say nothing to each other.

They remain in that bitter liminal space for a while. It’s painful for the both of them, holding a dam of words behind their tongue even when the other finally musters the courage to break the silence, to spill just enough to quench their thirst.

“Does this look okay?” (Talk to me.)

“Adjust the ribbon by your neck.” (Blue has always been your colour. I want to kiss your neck.)

Some shifting. “Now?” (So do it.)

A bare glance. “Fine.” (Not when you ask like that.)

It’s like losing his father all over again, in a way he never knew he had when he was a boy. Obviously, he doesn’t tell Wonwoo this. He doesn’t tell Wonwoo that a strange, irrational buzzing has started in his mind some time at the end of summer and hadn’t shown any signs of letting up until they began speaking to each other. He doesn’t tell Wonwoo that he needs his voice to fill the silence or he’ll become a little boy again, made to navigate on his own far too early. He most certainly doesn’t tell Wonwoo that he needs him to reign him in or he doesn’t know what’s going to happen. There are only so many times a human being can collapse under the exertion of being alive before they break.

Eventually, he decides - all on his own - that Wonwoo doesn’t have to know. He was his advisor; he was awoken and brought here to complete a task, not be a friend or a warm mouth. Soonyoung resolves to do well to remember that.

“I think they’re getting your statue mounted today.” (We haven’t gone on a walk together in so long.)

“Yeah.” Silence, and then: “Tearing down the old one too, I think.” (I don’t want to go there alone.)

“I don’t think I ever saw Seungcheol’s statues mounted.” (I’m scared to go with you.)

“Oh.” (I’m growing tired of pulling your teeth.)

****

**_III._ ** **_WINTER_ **

****

The next time Soonyoung and Wonwoo speak to each other properly, Soonyoung’s head is rolling and there’s blood splattered in gruesome ways all along the white coat that has descended upon the town square.

They stand before the beheaded corpse of Soonyoung’s statue, the dark obsidian shaved away right in the middle of his neck. The head still grins maniacally at them, not even having the decency to look shocked. The blood - pig’s blood, judging by the creamy redness of it - still drips down the pillar slowly, a river running itself dry. A boy and his younger brother come darting out from one of the houses, drawn out by Soonyoung and Wonwoo’s presence whilst also being confused by the commotion. When they see the dripping ugliness of it all, they scream in delight and squeeze the mess in between their boyish hands; now dyed red.

Soonyoung reaches for Wonwoo’s hand, pressing their palms together fiercely. Wonwoo stiffens immediately, in a way he never has before.

“I need this more than I need to be told what to do,” Soonyoung finally whimpers, and nearly sobs with relief when Wonwoo relaxes even the slightest bit. “Help me.”

The demon winds a hand around his waist, then, without thinking, presses a hurried kiss into his hair where no one else can see. The weight of the moment sits on Soonyoung’s chest and cuts his sobs off with an odd choking sound, but when he looks into Wonwoo’s eyes, he feels the familiar sting of tears unfurl from his eyelashes.

“Hush, now,” Wonwoo murmurs, hand still tight around his waist. “We’ll figure this out at home.”

They hobble back, shaky feet carrying them through the slippery roads that no longer feel like home. Around every corner is the possibility of a threatening face; a knife, a rock thrown too hard; a rope. Wonwoo keeps his arms around Soonyoung as they go, and doesn’t release them until they’re safely in his quarters.

“Should I get you a cup of tea?” Wonwoo offers, wringing his hands as he watches Soonyoung shake, unable to help.

“No,” Soonyoung declines, then shakes his head. “Can’t have anything. I feel so sick.” It comes out feeble, spent. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Wonwoo falls to his knees a few feet away from Soonyoung, his fists clenched over his thighs. He lets his coat trail out behind him, made of a much heavier material and embellished with gold thread along the collar. Beneath that, he’s all hollows and translucency. His fists are the strongest part of him, so he stretches a hand out. He squeezes his eyes shut for a minute, but Soonyoung isn’t watching.

And then, the blessed command rings through the air: “Come here.”

The sniffling stops. “What?”

“Come here.” 

He can’t believe this. And yet; and yet he crawls to Wonwoo like his life depends on it, falls into his lap and under his hands with the reckless trust of a patient going under the knife, kisses the heat of his mouth the way winter wraps itself into spring.

In the aftermath, Wonwoo turns to Soonyoung and curls a leg around Soonyoung’s calf. His face presses into his neck; that same neck that, as it turned out, he’d wanted to kiss all along, and lets his mouth roam. The heat of it stings with an edge of acidity, but Soonyoung doesn’t mind. Instead, he turns, and absent-mindedly runs his hair through the darkness of Wonwoo’s curly locks and wonders how the fuck he’s ever going to recover from this.

“Soonyoung,” Wonwoo breathes his name into the hollow of his throat, and he can’t help but shiver.

“Yes?” He’d usually be pleased with having his hands keep such a steady rhythm despite the presence of a warm mouth, but today, it approaches full-on arrogance as he doesn’t flinch when Wonwoo tenderly mumbles his name.

Wonwoo presses his teeth into the softness of Soonyoung’s neck, not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to know that he was there. “You need to start a war.”

“Why?”

“I’ve thought about it. It’s the only way you can prove yourself as king. No one would deny you then.”

Soonyoung ruminates over it for a minute, letting his fingers delve into the dips of Wonwoo’s spine, and into the valleys of his ribs. He doesn’t even bother dismissing it as anything but the truth.

“Tomorrow,” he decides. There’s another kiss pressed to his skin now, but it’s unfailingly gentle as Wonwoo’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek.

“Yes,” the other man agrees, intertwining his hands with Soonyoung’s pale ones. “Tomorrow.”

He doesn’t see the darkness starting to recede from his fingertips as they slumber.

***

Tomorrow comes, and the dreaded sunlight slices mercilessly through the window. Soonyoung makes his declaration regardless of the weather. Wonwoo stands by his side and watches him sign his death warrant with hands that don’t even tremble.

Afterwards, Soonyoung kisses him like his life depends on it. His hands shake as they cup Wonwoo’s face.

Wonwoo doesn’t tell him that there isn’t a single thing that could save him, even if he wanted.

***

Soonyoung fights bravely, because there isn’t any other option.

As he’d sat on his horse, visor not yet pulled over his eyes, the last thing he’d truly internalised was Wonwoo’s face, watching him from the sidelines. The other man looks to him they way he did when they were manifesting him in the graveyard all those months ago; when he’d forced Soonyoung to avert his eyes and spared him from the horrors of the world that spun mercilessly on, no matter the extenuating circumstances. He can’t cover his eyes now, but Soonyoung can see the intent blooming behind the man’s dark gaze. He’s learned to read that, too.

There’s a sudden gust of freezing air that whips Wonwoo’s dangerously thin robes about him. His eyes are strangely hollow as he watches the oncoming Northern army with Soonyoung. In the blue darkness of twilight, he looks every bit the revenant he’s meant to be.

Soonyoung waits for him to say something, to wish him luck amidst the steadily advancing enemy forces, but Wonwoo only purses his lips into a thin line. He wouldn’t call the behaviour thoroughly uncharacteristic, but it unnerves him significantly enough. He resolves to talk to Wonwoo about it after the battle, when he’s more likely to agree with the hum of victory in his veins. After all, if they wanted their names to be brought down in history, they’d have to work seamlessly together. This wouldn’t be news to Wonwoo. Soonyoung’s convinced he can get him to agree. He catches himself there, unable to hold back a small, amused smile. Wonwoo had been right, he thinks. This war might just help me prove myself to everyone; including me.

He sets off to meet the leading general of the Northern Army, his sword raised as an order as his horse gallops off into the fray. Against his chest, his heart and Wonwoo’s decaying coin beat a steady, unfailing rhythm.

The beat of it stops abruptly the minute he’s thrown off his horse and an enemy sword goes right through the spot on his chest where his heart is. He stops for a few seconds when it happens, just enough for the rival soldier to think him dead and ride off into the evening, sword in hand raised in a chilling parallel to the way he’d been just minutes before. His blood has already begun seeping into the snow when hooves of the other man’s horse begin thudding away.

He gasps, because that’s all there’s left to do. Alone in a field of snow, he raises his hands to his bleeding chest. It’s the same spot that his father had often placed a hand over when giving Soonyoung his most hard-hitting pieces of advice; the same spot Seulgi had lain her head and told him over and over again to _be careful, please_ ; the same spot Wonwoo had peppered sweet kisses over, rejoicing in the life he had thrumming eagerly through his veins. A sob wracks it’s way out from his throat, and he coughs, blood pooling over the side of his mouth.

And just like that, Wonwoo appears before him. Soonyoung can’t tell if he’s real or not. He looks so sad and sallow, he’s nearly convinced that this is an image his brain has invented out of desperation and the necessity to not be alone in his final moments.

Wonwoo’s cloak from earlier whips up around them, cocooning both their bodies and hiding them from everyone but each other. The silk of it catches the blood pooling in Soonyoung’s mouth, and stays caught for a moment. The sticky sweetness of it and the smell of frangipani that overwhelms his senses is almost enough to get him to close his eyes.

Instead, he whimpers: “You said you would protect me.”

Wonwoo’s hands come around to cup his face, and his empty eyes are beginning to shimmer. It takes Soonyoung a few moments to realise that he’s crying.

“I am,” he weeps, letting his unmarred thumb graze the smooth expanse of Soonyoung’s skin, careful not to smudge the blood. “I couldn’t kill you, Soonyoung. Not with my own hands.”

“Why?” is all Soonyoung can croak out. It’s getting darker now.

“Because I know you, you silly boy,” Wonwoo sniffles, and he takes his hand away to wipe frustratedly at the tears that have begun to drip onto the snow. “Because you’re my king, and I love you. Even when you’re twisted-up with grief, or--or making fun of me, or going out of your way to tempt me. I couldn’t help but love you, for all of those things.”

Soonyoung wants to tell him that he loves him too; that he can’t thank him enough for all his help; that at the end of all things, Wonwoo belonged to him, too.

“I’m not ready to go,” he pleads, now knotting his fists in the delicate silk of Wonwoo’s cloak. This is the wrong thing to say, and only makes the other man sob harder.

“I know,” he admits, sadly stroking Soonyoung’s grimy hair out of his face. “I know.”

“Then, why--” Soonyoung starts, but he’s cut off by Wonwoo pressing a single, spidery finger to his lips.

“Consider this my taking mercy on you,”’ he whispers into his ear, so quietly that the whistling of the wind overhead nearly drowns him out. “I told you I’d protect you. The way you lived; you were half-alive all the time. I couldn’t watch you go on like that. Not again. This, this is me keeping my promise.”

Before Soonyoung can get another word out of his mouth, Wonwoo presses his cold lips to his with unfailing pressure. He’s confused for a moment, wants him to get _off_ and _save_ him, _please_ \-- until he registers a cool, unblemished circle of metal sliding its way into his mouth.

Then he remembers; the coin. _Soonyoung’s_ coin.

Before he can cry out, Wonwoo’s melancholy figure fades, and he’s thrust into darkness.

***

“Hello?” Soonyoung calls out. He hasn’t a clue where he is. Everything is dark and dingy, and the walls are the very disturbing colour of old, rotten blood. He wrinkles his nose in great distaste.

“Here already?” a new voice echoes through the chamber, and Soonyoung spins on his heel, startled. The newcomer can only be described as bright. Not in the physical sense, because he isn’t glowing, nor is he wearing anything that would dispute the colour of the room around them. Instead, his eyes glitter intelligently under delicate gold-rimmed glasses, and he blinks at Soonyoung in obvious surprise. “I don’t think you’re due for another 70 years at least, dear boy.”

“Oh,” Soonyoung notes, feeling rather stupid. And then, after a brief pause: “Sorry, where exactly am I due?”

“Do you mean to tell me you don’t know where you are?” the man peers over his spectacles at him, huffing when a lock of curly, dark hair gets in his way.

“Not a clue, sir,” Soonyoung answers obediently, only for the man to throw back his head and laugh. His throat arches towards the ceiling, a perfectly clean line that disrupts the decaying air around them.

“No need to call me sir, Soonyoung,” the man scoffs once he’s composed himself. “Let’s keep it that way, shall we? You’ll find out in due time. Everyone’s due one day, anyway.”

“Er...right,” Soonyoung agrees, deciding that it might just be easier to act like he understands what’s happening instead of trying to dissect this fever dream. “Is there a due date, or any kind of reminder I’ll get? I’m awfully busy sometimes, so it might slip my mind if I don’t.”

The man laughs again, so heartily this time that he scrunches his nose in delight. Soonyoung has to stop himself from smiling, despite his overwhelming, constant confusion. “We can send you a reminder when you’re almost due, if you’re really worried about that.”

“That’d be marvellous, thank you,” he tells the man sincerely, then stops short as he realises he isn’t sure what he’s meant to do next. He holds out a hand to offer a handshake the way his father taught him too, but the other man only shakes his head.

“If you’d really like to thank me, I need something else from you.”

“Wh-- but I don’t have-” Soonyoung begins to protest, but the man only holds up a hand to silence him.

“Nothing extravagant or life-threatening, don’t you worry,” the man reassures him, and for some reason Soonyoung believes it. “You do wear a rather interesting necklace, don’t you?”

“Huh?” Soonyoung fumbles for a second, then pulls out the necklace. It’s an old, decaying coin, its grooves permanently set with dirt and grime. “Ugh,” he mutters under his breath, holding it as far away from him as possible.

“Do you think I could have it?” the man implores him, now searching his face with a strangely intent expression.

“Oh gods, do whatever you want with it,” Soonyoung mumbles as he whisks the necklace off in one smooth motion, then lays it in the man’s outstretched palm, which is marked by a rather curious, long scar. “What happened to your hand?”

At this, the man smiles sadly, and Soonyoung gets the distinct feeling that this isn’t a question he should’ve asked. “Accident from my youth,” he explains, gently curling his fingers into a fist.

“Ouch,” Soonyoung comments, his eyes still drawn to the scar despite it being out of sight. “It must’ve hurt.”

“At the time, yes,” the man admits, then ponders for a minute. “Looking back on it now though, I think it taught me a rather valuable lesson.”

Before Soonyoung can ask what that lesson might be, the man glances at the rotting coin and his eyebrows fly up to his hairline. “Oh dear, I think you’d better get a move on.”

“What--why, where am I going?” Soonyoung yelps as the man begins to shove him rather unceremoniously towards one of the walls, which Soonyoung can now see are made of a multitude of tiny, dilating folds.

“You’ve always asked far too many questions,” the man sighs. “It was one of the things I liked most about you. They’ll all be answered in time, don’t worry.” He stops for a minute, just long enough to grasp Soonyoung by the forearms and lean in close before he has the chance to rattle off any more queries. “ _Live_ the rest of your life, you understand? Look to the moon only when you need answers, and try not to spend quite so much time with your head underwater.”

Soonyoung can only gape at him uselessly, not sure what to make of his cryptic advice. This must be obvious to the man, because he laughs again, stepping out of Soonyoung’s space. “What I mean to tell you is, your life is not your prison. You are. There’s always a different story to tell; you just have to look hard enough.”

Before he can really question anything that the man had told him, he’s being sucked out of the room, and darkness envelopes him again.

_**IV.**_ **_EPILOGUE: SUMMER_**

“My lord?”

The voice is hazy and far-off, a pesky fly buzzing in the distance with a frequency just loud enough to irritate Soonyoung. He waves his hand around giddily, with his eyes still closed.

“My _lord_?”

It’s more insistent this time. He groans, already displeased.

“Soonyoung!” there’s a hiss, and then an aching prodding in his side.

“Ow!” he yelps, his eyes widening in pain as he jolts up from his nap. Seokmin is all of 30 centimetres away from him, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and looking very, very nervous. “What’d you do that for?” he groans, rubbing the sore spot in his left ribcage left by Seokmin’s bony fingers.

“Sorry,” he whispers, his eyes darting to the door as he apologises. “There’s a new man come in, come to interview for the position of advisor, he says.”

“What?” Soonyoung’s fully awake now, and his eyebrows furrow. “Haven’t I already got one of those?”

“I’m not your advisor, sir,” Seokmin reminds him, although a tell-tale blush has worked its way up his cheeks.

“Well, you may as well be,” Soonyoung mutters, then grins innocently when Seokmin catches his eye, feigning annoyance. “Alright, alright, I’m just joking with you - send him in. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

Seokmin nods immediately, then quick as a flash, goes to heave open the double doors.

The man standing on the other side is quiet, contained, and somehow the brightest thing in the sun-drenched room.

“Well, hello,” Soonyoung greets him, pushing himself off his throne to shake the newcomer’s hand. His necklace of moonstone swings with the motion, catching the light and sparkling incandescently. “And what might your name be?”

“Jeon,” the man answers, and the deeply shy voice that emerges from his throat effectively startles both Soonyoung and Seokmin. “Jeon Wonwoo, that is.” Then, he clears his throat to add: “Sir.”, almost as an afterthought. Soonyoung has to hide his obvious glee.

“Oh!” Soonyoung notes, already watching Wonwoo closely. “Just like the greats, then. Did your parents know you were going to be an advisor to the royal family?”

“No, sir,” the man disagrees, but a good-humored smile has worked its way onto his face. “Although, they are believers in fate.”

“Well, it appears to be your lucky day then, Jeon Wonwoo,” Soonyoung announces, giving Wonwoo his most welcoming smile. “I, too, happen to be a believer in fate.”

“Sire?”

“Welcome to the team, Jeon Wonwoo,” Soonyoung offers his hand out now, the same firm handshake his father had taught him in his young years within this very room.

“Thank you, sire,” Wonwoo takes it, and his thin hands envelope Soonyoung’s ever-so-lightly, it’s almost like there’s nothing there at all. His fingernails are pristine, and he grins up at Soonyoung from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. “I look forward to serving you.”


End file.
